It was a lean, mean, clean weekend. The redclaw pickings were
lean. The SW wind mean and the amenities fantastically clean.
We arrived after dark and after the storm Phil & Fay had seen
out in the comfort of their car and Ray in the shelter of the
princess tent. The ground was damp and Ray suggested that the
process of us putting up our tent was a spectator sport, one
which became more interesting with the degree of difficulty with
which it was achieved. He fended of any offers of help with the
knowledge that these ran the very real risk of ripping the fabric
of the tent and maybe more. Sniping remarks from the peanut
gallery (now imbued with confidence of a few reds) agreed that
the process of erecting this mere hoop frame tent took far more
effort than that required for their McMansions. The SW ramped up
and had all scuttling for shelter, most of which flapped like
crazy all night bringing little sleep. At least it didn't rain.
Phil's voiced ambition to be up at day break to check the pots
was left to the birds. Not that there were that many - even the
crows had left. The SW continued to howl over the hill and no one was
venturing out. Even those mad keen fishermen who were camping at
Logan Inlet for the Wivenhoe Kayak Fishing Convention were no
where in sight. After a slow breakfast, a decent slug of coffee
it was sailing across the lake to see what delicacy had ventured
into Ray's pots. Not much as it turned out. It was a pretty lean
harvest, enough to given Irena a taste but not much more.
We had the opportunity to try out Rosco's new Southern Raider
Expedition - a high volume boat with the hull of a Southern
Raider. It paddled well in a straight line without a rudder and
surfed beautifully with a following swell. While I had difficulty
turning into the wind, this means little as I am not one of those
clever people who will flop a boat over and edge a turn. The boat
has a luxuriously padded slung seat, however after years of confinement in my old Artic
Raider, I did feel a bit lost in the cockpit. I also missed the foot
bar and rudder control set up (this is optional) as it allows me
to paddle with my feet together, or with feet to the side whilst
clinging desperately to the inside of the hull with my legs.
Given that I hardly know what a bracing stroke is (the Artic
Raider is so stable that this skill is seldom asked for) I am not
in a good position to pass a useful comment aside to say that
this boat is probably more suited to someone bigger than me.
Kayakers of the fishing disposition have an inordinate amount of
money to spend. Seems they could do well with an exchange of some
of that money for skills possessed by other kayakers. We watched
with interest as the supercharged rescue boat ploughed through
the chop and returned with a Caninghi in tow. Unfortunately it
flipped with only 300m to go. The Caninghi was left listing while
the chop disembowelled it of an amazing array of gear from muesli
bars to fishing lures. During the drama we watched a couple have
their own little life moment attempting to pitch a tent. The SW
was intent on flattening the hoop frame and turning the fly into
a sail. It was clear that this tent was not going to withstand
the caning it was receiving, a caning which was forecast to get
worse. We invited them to change allegiance, cross the road and
take a flat area on our site. In fact tent pitching had become a
pretty amazing process - far more spectacular than our Friday
night affair.
After collecting the Caninghi's contents we finally headed into
Fernvale for a bakery lunch, some thin sliced white bread for
redclaw sandwiches and a visit to Woolworths for some mayonnaise
I had forgotten for the famous red claw sandwich. When we got
back we decided to get out on the water. The decision was to turn
into it and get the grind done first. Once on the water the wind
started to stall so we called in to have a look at what was on
show at the pavilion. Here we saw displays of live native and
noxious fish, learned more about how to identify a tailapia vs a
perch and hooked the enthusiastic interest of someone who took
one look at us and declared "sea kayakers". It later
turned out that the assumption was easy as he thought the fishing
kayakers would not be stupid enough to be out there. His name was
Trevor and after a brief conversation - BINGO - I pinned him as
being the legendary Trevor Gunther. We had heard about Trevor
many years ago, he was the guy who did mad stuff, certainly not a
domestic sea kayaker. He was riveted by the Marlin and positively
itching to have a paddle, so Mark dropped his skirt and Trevor
was off. In the meantime we watched a Hobie Adventure Island
kayak with two outriggers and an oversized sail play around in
the shelter of the bay.
Eventually the wind started to wind up and we thought it time to
head off, especially if we were to relocate the pots before dark.
A brief bounce out then it was turn for a run with the wind and
chop. I was not game to put up the sail - there was a possibility
that I would have got more than I bargained for, although both
Graeme and Mark were expecting a yellow flash to pass them by.
All they got was a flurry of chicken feathers. The pots were
neglected.
By now the couple had crossed the road, successfully pitched
their tent and were relaxing into their chairs with another beer.
Next up a delicious warm shower in sparkling clean amenities,
directly onto sundowners then a meal less a redclaw or two. We
did the next best thing and had crab in a Thai green curry fired
with extra chilli. Ow - bit much chilli. The SW howled and it was
quite cold so we either huddled in the shelter of the McMansions
or around a blazing campfire. Marshmallows were skewered on a BBQ
spike with an impressive reach and foil. We then retired into a
tent now secured three times as many pegs driven into pilot holes
created using a large screwdriver - Ted would have been proud.
We slept well, whether it be due to the lack of sleep the
previous night, an excessive number of tent pegs, rum, beer or
less wind, it was academic. After a leisurely breakfast we split
up to check the pots to discover an equally miserable take. Back
onshore a classic kayak gaggle clustered around Irena's boat
taking a close look at the new Flat Earth sail. I am grateful
that Ben from Sailtech made my sail. Why he even indulged my
pansy request for a colour co-ordinated yellow and black number.
But that was not was important - that sort of stuff only matters
to boys, I finally got around to it with sail number five. Having
snapped two masts, wrecked three tiller extensions, rotted four
sails and a professed addiction for paddling the easy way (ie
sailing) I think I have come to recognise what I need in the way
of a sail for my boat and my skills. The sail that Ben created
was well made and re-inforced in the critical places. He even
indulged my request for a loop to hang it from (nice guy Ben).
Furthermore, this sail is rigged using spectra and 316 marine
grade carabineers with locking screws on a deck with extra
fibreglass done by Kerry from Natureline. It is all of these
aspects together that creates a sail that can take the
punishment. While Irena's Flat Earth Sail looked great, I was
not happy that what looked like twine had been used to rig the sail and how
it had been secured to the deck. The twine (which looked like the
stuff to tie onion sacks) was already fraying. Not good enough - not if
you want sailing to be fun and reliable.
Dave called in and it was good to see him - it has been a while and he could probably unleash Number 42 again. However, he was a bit late for the prospect of a paddle as we were into breaking camp for the weekend.
Phil and Fay had thought the redclaw banquet was going to be for
lunch. Not likely, we were ready and waiting by morning tea. Out
with the fresh white bread, lemons, mayo, salt and pepper on a
table graced with a tablecloth from Faye's glory box, it was time
to feast. Irena had a mountain of experience coming her way on
how to dismember the lobster on her plate. The conversation was
subdued by culinary intent. We would like to nominate Phil for
the new series of Master Chef Goes Wild so he can showcase his
fiendishly fantastic redclaw.
The Ranger came down and politely suggested we sod off as the
site had been booked for today. When a Harley growled down the
roadway we were prepared to do so exceptionally quickly. As it
was we parted company soon after when a 4WD towing a caravan
pulled up and looked towards us in a territorial manner. After
being treated to such fantastically clean and well cared for
amenities we did not want to rile the Ranger. Especially since
some of the loos had stopped flushing, and he poor devil would
have to deal with the donations.
At the end of a particularly blustery weekend we all agreed this
one has to go back on the calendar. Back on in summer when more
of the little lobsters are prepared to make an honourable
sacrifice in an icy slush before being boiled then squished
between two pieces of thinly sliced white bread fresh from the
Fernvale Bakery and munched on.
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