Scribe: Grant Hyland.
Just a quick introduction to the story. Toby, Mac, Laurie, and Kaye had all set off to paddle across Bass Strait by island hopping through the Flinders group, accompanied by Grant. Grant stopped at Killiecrankie Bay (northern end of Flinders Island) while the others pushed on to Victoria. Bad weather set in and Grant stayed in the area for an extra week more than planned, while the others fought wind and wave on the return trip. The story starts with the main group just leaving Grant... (See 'It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time', Sea Canoeist March 1987).
It was about 8.00pm, I was standing on the rocks in Killiecrankie Bay watching 4 pelican-like dots getting smaller and smaller as they slowly moved out to sea. Soon they had disappeared into the gloomy grey mist.
“Bloody idiots", I thought to myself as I wandered back to where my tent-fly was set up beside the kayak on the beach.
I unrolled my sleeping bag then wandered up to the house for a yarn with Alf, staying there for an hour or so then went to bed to swat mosquitoes. What did you do on New Years Eve?
After the luxury of a slowly chewed breakfast (I was missing Laurie already), I paddled across to the other side of the bay to visit Stackies Bight which Ian and Toby had visited the day before. I photographed the arch then after a look around, started paddling back. What I didn't realise, was that Laurie, Kamikaze, Mac and Toby were at that moment still paddling slowly on towards Deal Island.
I spent the rest of New Years Day lazing about, taping up my blisters, reading and talking to Victorian Holiday-makers. I packed my clothes that night and slept in my canoeing gear.
I was on the water by 8.20am, after listening to the weather forecast on the trannie. I rounded Cape Frankland within an hour, but as the wind had picked up, I slowed to a crawl and ended up taking two and a half hours to struggle into Marshall Bay. Concerned with being blown to heck knows where I stuck close to the beach, which meant lots of bottom drag. After slowly following the curve of the bay till about halfway, I was finally able to put up my sail which sped my progress somewhat.
I reached a good campsite in Sawyer Bay at about 2.30pm and was relieved to find what I thought was a broken rudder cable was in fact merely unhooked off the foot-bar. I spent the rest of the afternoon airing out gear, skin diving and getting bitten by bull-ants.
Set off for Whitemark. I had a headwind right from the start. but by the time I struggled to Blue Rocks I could use my sail. It didn't seem long before I was at Long Point, but then I had a painfully slow trip across Parrys Bay to Whitemark against strong headwinds, lots of bottom drag and heaps of frustrating weed which tangles around your rudder and tries to take your paddle off you. Oh well, it beats having a good time.
I bought some supplies in the bustling metropolis of Whitemark. A horrifying experience. I had hurried across the ultra-wide main street, keeping a wary eye on the solitary car 100 metres up the street. I rang and heard the first news of the others, and then climbed back into the faithful old North Sea Tourer and set off for Trousers Point.
I photographed the ruins of an old jetty which looked extremely historical (it was one of the first wharves on the island), then started paddling across a calm Fotheringate Bay. According to Murphy's Law, a calm sea is just not possible, so a sudden squall hit me from the south-west about a third of the way across. As I was battling the strong wind and a 3ft chop a deafening thumping noise made me look up. Now was the perfect time for a coronary, I thought, as a massive army helicopter came flying straight towards me about l0ft above the sea. It suddenly banked left, revealing a second Iroquois, hidden behind, which banked right, both of them roaring past me in the middle. I somehow stayed upright as I twisted nearly right around, trying to watch them as they quickly disappeared from sight.
It was about an hour after I left the old ruined jetty that I gratefully reached the sheltered waters off the northern end of Trousers Point. This sea canoeing is just so BORING! I checked out some very interesting honey-combed rock formations and caves then struggled to drag my boat up to a campsite. The forecast that night was for gales but I went to sleep to the sound of light drizzle hitting the tent fly. (Editor’s Note: A lot of our members only use a tent fly to sleep under, particularly in summer.)
I was rudely woken by the comforting sound of a gale blowing through the she-oaks, deafening booms of thunder, blinding flashes of lightning, torrential rain and an extremely wet down sleeping bag. It took about 30 seconds to realise my tent fly had gone. Wearing only bathers, I abandoned my sleeping bag and rushed about in the storm chasing gear which was trying to escape through the trees.
It just so happened there was a tent sitting untidily in the boat where it had sort of accidentally fallen in whilst packing at the start of the trip, and I, in my haste to pack had neglected to remove it before we set sail. I had the tent half up when my torch batteries decided that now was the perfect opportunity to cease functioning.
After shivering and fumbling in the dark for about five minutes I finally managed to replace the batteries and continued to fight the wind, rain, and tent until I finally got it up. I rushed about catching soggy gear and throwing it into the tent, still getting blinded by lightning and blown by the storm, then my torch bulb blew. Well .. why not?
It was while I was sitting in my tent in the dark trying to replace the tiny bulb that I came to the conclusion that the trip could only get better. Putting all the wet gear on one side of the tent, I retrieved my dry clothes and listened to the storm until I actually went back to sleep. I think it was about 3.00am.
When it was light enough I went looking for lost gear, finding my tent fly about 50m from the tent, tangled in a tree. It was another wet and windy day, I ate some breakfast and trudged/squelched my way through the mud over to the camping ground on the other side of the point to sneakily steal some loo paper, as my supply was running low, and to check the sea conditions to the south ... So much for paddling.
Back at camp at 10.55am, the sun appeared so I hung out my sleeping bag to dry. By ll.00am it was pouring so I packed my *&%$#^?* sleeping bag away, and was wearing my canoeing gear in case the wind died - it did - only to start blowing harder than ever 5 minutes later. I didn't want to paddle anyway.
I was getting very depressed now, not looking forward to being stuck on Trousers Point for another night. At about 5.00pm a local middle-aged couple turned up and took pity on me, inviting me home for tea. I took up their invitation (out of politeness of course) and violently pushed them out of the way to beat them to their car.
Mr & Mrs Peter Robinson drove me to their farm house at Samphire River, near Lady Barron. I wasn't surprised to see the road and adjoining paddocks covered by about 30cm of water. Peter told me that they had received about 4 inches of rain overnight, and they were on the sheltered side of the mountains!
After an excellent tea Peter took me all the way back to Trousers Point then told me he'd take my boat and gear to Lady Barron. How do you repay these people?
I went to sleep listening to the approach of a thunder storm with lots of deafening rain, the first of three.
I woke up too late to hear the forecast but I didn't really care as I didn't intend to paddle anyway. I went for a walk to find the supermarket and found it much harder than I first thought. I chased it all over Lady Barron and finally outwitted it, cornering it in a small rutted dead end in the bush.
I staggered back to camp laden with a great load of supplies and set off in pursuit of a telephone and found it looking rather foolish on the wharf. I rang home and reported my plans to Mother, then walked back to find out why my electric bilge pump wasn't working. Peter called in to see how things were going and offered to bring down his soldering gear when I discovered a broken wire. I sat in the tent writing my diary while the rain poured down in yet another thunderstorm. Peter arrived with his soldering iron, fixing the pump in minutes, then left again.
I sat on the rocks that night and watched the sunset (you tend to do these silly things when you are on your own) and a small seal feeding in the bay before I retired to my tent.
Up with a thunderstorm at 4.30am, I was beginning to think it was following me. I had breakfast then started packing while the mist lifted to reveal a beautiful sunrise. The tide was just starting to go out as I set off for Great Dog Island on a mirror calm sea. I paused for a couple of minutes to watch two dolphins feeding in the reflections of the sunrise, unfortunately too far away for a photograph. The tide helped me down the southern end of Great Dog, but then I had to wait for a few hours before I could attempt a crossing to Vansittart Island to the east, owing to the standing waves, boils and whirlpools in the channel. To fill in the time I climbed a small rocky hill on Great Dog to enjoy a magnificent view of the channel and a small fishing boat struggling against the mighty current. I got attacked by my personal thunderstorm again as I clambered back down to my kayak.
As soon as the current was slow enough to paddle across, I ferry-glided across Bates Bay and hugged the coastline around the south end of Vansittart Island, where I stopped to watch a tiny dolphin playing in the weedy shallows, splashing me with water when he came right up to me. I got desperate and tried to take an underwater photo of him but missed. I could have stayed there all day but I was anxious to get past Puncheon Point before the tide turned. I didn't have the problems of tide tables. I had simply copied them from Ian's agenda but overlooked the fact that he had only written them down for the groups paddling days, which meant that I had small holes in my tides and had to guess.
As I rounded the bit called Long Tom's Nose (I don't know whether Tom was long or his nose) the proud silhouette of the old sailing ship Farsund loomed in the mist about 8km away. It was a strange feeling paddling towards this ghostly wreck. Because it rested upright in the shallow water it looked as if it was still afloat with it's high proud bow looking out over the breakers.
I finally reached it and paddled quickly around it taking photos, and bracing into the breakers as they roared down the side of the old ship. The old steel lower masts still stood, as well as some of the superstructure and a small area of deck and railing. The aft lower mast was missing - a section hanging over the side. The whole ship ponged with cormorant droppings. I paddled back in before I could get flattened by the surf - entering Franklin Sound just as the tides tarted to turn. Because of the constricting effect of Vansittart Island across Franklin Sound it's amazing to see the tide changing direction.
Halfway to Apple Orchard Point (on Cape Barren Island) I came across a fishing boat (the Moonbird) which had run aground on a bank after missing the channel by about 10ft. It looked funny, about 3km from the nearest land, lying on a 20 degree angle although the old codger sitting on the floor of the wheelhouse didn't appear to be laughing as he grumpily mumbled something about the #"$x&* channel marker
I stayed and laughed at him for about an hour before climbing back into the kayak to locate the channel for him (missed it by that much!), then set off for Apple Orchard Point against a light, but increasing westerly breeze.
I finally reached the point and stopped for lunch, enjoying a bite of orange and chocolate before climbing a small hill to check out a solar powered navigation light, and watch the standing waves build up between the point and Ram Island as the tide picked up speed. Soon I was gleefully bouncing through the 3 - 4ft broken standing waves, making me thirsty for white-water. The boat didn't like it as much as I did apparently, because to my dismay I discovered that the rudder had all but fallen off. Oh well, why not?
I was starting to regret stopping for so long at lunch as the headwind got stronger. I had the rudder out of the water but it kept turning sideways and catching the tops of the waves. I was battling against the tide as well when I finally slogged into Everetts Cove on Anderson Island at about 4.00pm after a 38km paddle for the day.
Anderson island is leased by Peter Robinson for his sheep and cattle and contained a sheering shed and a small shack. Peter had told me where the key was so I was able to spend the rest of the day there. I rigged up a clothesline to hang my sleeping gear and canoeing gear on. A long strip of CSM looked out of place pegged up beside them but my repair kit had sprung a leak - times were tough. I explored the island for a while before dragging the stern of the kayak into the doorway to do some fibre glassing by candlelight, trying to persuade the rudder to stay with the boat.
The sleeping bag was still wet so after tea I slept in my innersheet.
A beautiful calm day. I had to wait till lunch time for the tide so took my time packing and taking photos of the resident goose and scenery, the fibreglass had dried OK overnight although it had been very cool. Oh for an electric blanket (or a dry sleeping bag for that matter!).
The sky was cloudless, the sun hot, the sea crystal clear as I set off and drifted lazily over the reef with the incoming tide, staring down at the kelp, sand and fish.
It wasn't long before I arrived at "The Corner" - the township on Cape Barren Island, where I bought some supplies at the small store cum post office. I couldn't buy methylated spirits because the locals drank it (hence the bars on the window) but the local shopkeeper went to his house and gave me some. After ringing Mother, chatting to some local kids and loading the peanut butter into the front hatch I set off into a freshening westerly on my way to Long Island Passage, looking forward to sailing down to Preservation Island when I had rounded the western end of Cape Barren. But that would have been too easy wouldn't it. The wind died away to nothing as I paddled down to Cape Sir John.
Preservation Island, 8km ahead according to my battered map, was nowhere to be seen. I set my compass and hoped for the best. A plane from Munro’s Aviation flew low overhead and circled round me, the pilot giving a wave after he figured out what the heck I was. I passed a place called Piano Point and still had not found Preservation. The dark evil clouds approaching from the west started getting too close for comfort, but soon I was happily cruising with my sail up. The wind got stronger until I was zipping along so fast that, with mast bending and spray flying, I was going too fast to paddle.
I had run off my map now so wasn't sure how far I was from the island. Then it appeared out of the gloom. Dodging between reefs I sailed right up to the beach, startling some geese. I changed maps to find Horseshoe Bay.
I found I had about 2km to go down the north-east coast of the island, and set off again - barely making headway against the wind. I cleared the reefs and while putting up the sail again a fishing boat passed me. Then the fisherman watched me, his mouth open, as I sped past bracing on my paddle.
I soon reached the bay and took the sail down as I turned into the wind to reach the beach. The bay wasn't as deserted as I expected, there were 4 fishing boats and a couple of yachts sheltering from the coming gale.
As I strained slowly against the wind the latest arrival came chugging past, the same fisherman grinning at my struggle. By the time I reached him he already had his anchor down, and I had to keep paddling just to stay alongside. He offered to radio a message for me but I foolishly declined, thinking I could nip across to Clarke Island and ring whenever I wanted. Wrong!
I dragged my kayak up the beach at about 6.30pm and wandered up to see what was in the shack behind the beach. It contained 4 fishermen who thought I was mad paddling about in gales. Changing my plans about sleeping in the shack I put my tent up in the wind with a lot of cursing, and got changed in the shelter of the large shed adjoining the shack. I rigged a clothesline and hung the wet gear and sleeping bag on it, a bit depressed about not being able to use it in the cold nights. Using some bits of heavy wire as pegs I steadied the tent sides against the strong wind.
I had tea and then after scribbling some strange things in my diary lay back in the tent and listened to the sound of some very heavy rain.
When I woke it was still blowing strongly from the NW but at least it was sunny. According to the weather forecast I could expect some strong winds. Oh. what a surprise!
Went for a walk and met Don Cameron and step-sons off the yacht 'Cameo' who were having a holiday after the Melbourne to Hobart race.
Don told me of the fun they had during the night with everyone dragging anchors and having to run the engines to get back into the bay several times during the night.
Most of the fishing boats had left except the large diving charter boat 'Polparro'. The divers aboard had apparently spent lots of money to sit in the boat for a week and play cards in a gale.
I stuck my head out of the tent this morning still half asleep. It took me several seconds to realise what the gigantic black mass in front of my face was. I managed to get one eye focussed and sort of stopped breathing as the head of an enormous black bull took shape inches in front of me. He was apparently wondering what the grey caterpillar was (my tent!). I broke out in a cold sweat as I stared at him and then slowly withdrew into the tent, hoping he wouldn't decide to investigate further (or tread on me for that matter). Being lonely, I was of course quite depressed to see him finally wander off!
I found some magazines in the shack after the fishermen had left and spent a lot of time reading them and going for short aimless wanderings. I was really tempted to eat for something to do, but forced myself to eat only one meal a day as I had no idea how long I was going to be on this flat grotty little windswept piece of rock. It was still blowing NW when I went to bed that night (in my sleeping bag!), the strong wind warning being upgraded to a gale warning.
Listened to the news at 6.00am and was dismayed to hear of a canoeist lost on the Broad River trip. No name was released which had me worrying who. Wind died right back to 'strong' after a very rough night. I was lifted off the ground in my tent for a second or so. I was worried that the tent might not stand up to it, but survived. I managed to paddle to Clarke Island today in about an hour with my sail up, and found my way to the homestead (I found one of Toby's electric fences on the way), and met Mrs Perry and her son - who are permanent residents. I rang Cecily who informed me that the others were on Wilsons Promontory, and asked her to ring Mother and get her to ring work and tell them I might be slightly late.
Mrs Perry showed me around then kindly gave me sandwiches for lunch. I climbed back into the old faithful N.S.Tourer and set off against the 4 to 7ft swell with 2 litres of fresh milk and a dozen eggs on board. I reached the island in about an hour and a half and spent about 30 minutes aboard Cameo enjoying a cold stubby. I even had a fried egg for tea that night before going to bed early.
I got up at about 7.30am and walked around to Rum Island but didn't stay long as the wind picked up and made the rain and everything a bit miserable. I was drenched when I got back to the campsite, and put the kayak into the shed to try and dry it as I intended to try and do abetter job of repairing the rudder. I had a couple more fried eggs for tea with my potato-whip.
Woke up at 7.30am with 2 hours before I was due back at work - oh well?
Another strong wind warning so the others wouldn't be any closer yet. I read most of the old newspapers in the shack. 1983 financial pages are most exciting! I finished off the peanut butter and bread and got depressed, thinking I might have to leave in the morning but the gale warning put a stop to that. The tide times I had pinched from Mac only had a couple of days to go and I decided that it was far too risky crossing Banks Strait by guess.
With nothing else to do, I slept in. The highlight of the day (which was windy) was washing most of my clothes and then myself. About a dozen black bulls started wandering about the airstrip, bellowing just on dusk (Oh no - not again).
A lovely sunny day today. 4 people came up from the yacht 'Scintilla to stretch their legs. They had anchored near Rum Island and invited me aboard that evening. I walked around there after eating my last egg. They rowed me out in a tiny toy aluminium bathtub. I had a drink and watched “The Day of the Triffids” on a box they called television, in living colour. When it was time to row me ashore it had got too rough so spent the cool night on board in only t-shirt and shorts - being kept awake by all the rolling and clanking.
I was rowed ashore this morning and, true to form, I tripped and fell flat on my face in the shallows much to everyones amusement - except mine.
I wandered around toward Rum Island checking out the place where the survivors of the wreck of the Sydney Cove lived for months while a handful of men rowed and walked to Sydney. Their's was the first shipwreck in Australian waters since settlement.
Not much wind today, so far, and no warnings. I hoped to be able to paddle to Clarke Island again today but I can't set off till after 12 noon owing to the tides. I paddled around to the Scintilla at about 10.30 and sat on the beach talking to the King family while watching a second yacht which had anchored that morning, looking like a Chinese laundry with washing everywhere.
Mike King from the Scintilla said they seemed to have lots of trouble when they arrived, zigzagging all over the place before anchoring. Later we learnt that their engine had suddenly quit as they arrived, making control rather difficult.
Some people rowed ashore in a little dinghy and came over to chat. Nigel and Nora Roberts had spent three weeks around Flinders Island and were on their way back to Bridport. After having a yarn, during which I found out they were from Table Cape, Nigel offered to give me a lift, if I wanted, as they were leaving tomorrow. I thought I would paddle to Clarke Island today to check on the others, then decide whether to leave or wait.
Set off for Clarke Island shortly after. Once I got away from the lee of the shore I had a nice little swell to make the trip less dull in the empty North Sea Tourer. As usual the trip took about an hour, although I had to spend some time trying to find a sheltered place to land in.
Cecily wasn't home when I rang, so I tried to ring Mum & Dad, but they were out also. I managed to contact Sue at Work and found the others would still be a week away, weather permitting. I decided that I would hitch a ride to Bridport - I only had a bag of rice and a can of Coke, plus two packets of freeze-dried for emergencies. I spent the afternoon on Clarke Island as I had to wait until 8.00pm before I could head back. Mr & Mrs Perry insisted that I stay for tea which I did (well, I couldn't offend them by refusing could I?), besides, I was a mite peckish.
7.00pm saw me halfway back to Preservation Island. After an hours paddling I should have been there already but there was a strong headwind. The steep 7ft white caps didn't exactly help either. A solid mass of foam would dump on me, making it extremely difficult to hold down my roast duck tea. I was very relieved to get back into the lee of the island and the Chinese Laundry yacht.
I talked with Nigel and found out that a front was coming through and we would have to leave early, so I would have to be on board as early as I could - like tonight. I paddled back to the campsite, arriving about 9.00pm, dragged the kayak up to the tent and commenced packing. Cursing the strong north-westerly blowing across the airstrip I finally managed to squeeze everything into my boat. Well, actually, owing to the lack of food, my gear just sort of fell in and rattled around a lot.
Paddled back around in the moonlight and up to the Scintilla, tapping on the cabin window and watching the occupants jump. I said goodbye and paddled the l00yds further to the one taking me home, where they helped me aboard with my kayak. I pulled out my dry clothes then helped Nigel lash it on the foredeck and cabin roof.
It's dark today, but that has probably got something to do with the fact that it is only 1.00am. The engine was started and we weighed anchor (Heavy? .. Ed.), chugging out around an island and into a fair sized swell. I helped lift the dinghy, which had been getting towed, onto the foredeck, next to the kayak, getting a bit damp in the process. We tied it down then settled back to enjoy the ride. We cruised steadily along against the tide, the engine throbbing healthily until 2.30am when things were suddenly quiet. A boat not going anywhere in a swell usually does funny things. This one was no exception.
The engine was under the floor in the galley, not too hard to get at, but extremely difficult to work on when everything is tilting violently about 30 degrees each way. Vary unpleasant when you have got your head down, bum up and rolling sickeningly, breathing engine fumes and still battling with a stomach full of roast duck.
We bled the fuel system and the engine was soon humming away merrily - for about 10 minutes. The yacht turned sideways to the swell and started its awful motion while we swore at, kicked, thumped and generally abused the engine.
Off again, we were back into the swell, much more comfortable. Nigel usually didn't sail at night but decided that it might be the thing to do, so his deckhand and I scrambled, tripped over, slipped under and cursed the kayak, before finally reaching the bow. We wedged ourselves under the railing and proceeded to untangle a white mass of nylon stuff which turned out to be a sail. It was about then that we found ourselves momentarily up to our ears in water.
"Wave coming!" yelled Nigel from the cockpit.
“*%^&$#@*” spluttered the deckhand.
The engine, typical Ford, stopped again but at least we had enough way from the headsail to keep steerage, making things much easier below when bleeding the engine again. We started it to make sure it went then turned it off again for emergencies, putting up the mainsail (that's the big back one) making about 8 knots anyway.
Soon it was getting light enough to see, Swan Island appeared way back behind us, making navigation easier as the Swan Light (not the beer) apparently wasn't working, explaining why we couldn't see it at night. By 10.00am we were becalmed, having been taken well north by the tide so that we had to think again to use the engine. Nigel had apparently swallowed some diesel the day before and wasn't feeling all that well, so he stayed on deck in the fresh air, just ducking down to help now and then.
I rigged up a jerry-can for a gravity feed tank, which the other bloke, who was only introduced to me as “Useless”, filled with a handpump from the main tanks. We proceeded at about 5-8 knots towards Bridport.
I loaded the kayak with difficulty, as it was still upside down on the cabin roof, therefore gravity tends to work slightly against you when you are trying to put the covers on. I said goodbye, my boat was tossed overboard, followed by yours truly. I was about 5km from Bridport, the others (in the yacht) had decided to head for Beauty Point, so I had to do it manually (what a let down!).
I followed the coast from the end of East Sandy Point, along the great sand dunes towards Granite Point listening to the steadily approaching westerly front.
The distant rumblings got louder and were accompanied by flashes of lightning, the huge drops of rain began splashing around me (Oh no, not again!). I paddled harder as the shore got closer. I had been heading straight across the bay toward Forester Rock, but when the lightning started striking the sea not far away, I turned and headed for the nearest land, flat out. I had read somewhere that lightning generally strikes the highest point. In this case the highest point was my soaking wet hat! I nearly got the boat up on the plane when the lightning hit the sea less than 100 metres away from me with a loud crackling hiss, which I more felt than heard. Oh well, like I often say, it sure beats having a good time!
I reached the breakers and pulled up my rudder, surfed in and dragged my kayak up onto the steeply sloping beach. I lay back comfortably against a sand dune, got soaked by the heavy rain, until the storm passed, which didn't take too long, then dragged my boat down the steep beach to the dumping breakers (not exactly huge) to get back in.
To the uninitiated, this is a curious ritual to watch indeed, involving, in my case, much cursing, splashing and swearing with occasional strange movements involving breakers, a heavy kayak, and my head. Finally I got slightly cross, towed the kayak out through the breakers and somehow climbed in, fitted the spraydeck, switched on the pump and paddled on towards Granite Point.
Eventually, I landed at Bridport and staggered up the beach with the old North Sea Tourer in tow. I asked a kind old gentleman if he would mind watching the boat for half an hour, then staggered up the road to find Jeff's residence, noting with interest the local councils apparent dislike of street signs. Jeff towed his trolley back down to the beach and tied my boat onto it, while I got changed in the local toilets. I found I had to hold the wall with one hand, the loo's were swaying so much. After a very welcome hot shower Jeff very kindly drove me all the way to Little Musselboro to retrieve my car. I tried my hardest not to doze off on the way back and arrived at Jeff’s for tea.
After I had made a pig of myself eating real food, Jeff, Bev and I went for a walk down to the beach, where Nigel's yacht was sitting at anchor after turning back from near Tenth Island. It had got a little rough out there?
I stayed at the Jennings residence that night and left for home after breakfast on Saturday (19th), so ending a lazy, relaxing holiday in the sun.
Would I do it again? ... You've got to be Joking!
GRANT HYLAND. (A misplaced whitewater canoeist)
(Editor’s Note: Actually we only missed catching up with him by less than a day - Grant left Preservation Island in the early hours of the l7th, we arrived late in the afternoon the same day. Although we had been at Killiecrankie when he phoned home he hadn't expected us to go from Killiecrankie to Preservation Is in two days. L.Ford)
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