Free All the Way Round by Stuart Trueman

with water and even harder to roll upright. If you need something more exciting than bumping into a whale at night to wake you up, try an unexpected roll, with the sail up and spray skirt off, to ensure the cold water gets everywhere.
    During the trip I got blown over about half a dozen times and not once did I think of releasing the ropes that hold the sail in place, which would have made the success of the roll much more certain. I just tried harder and, somehow, up I came.
    For the last few hours of the crossing I struggled with my mind which was insisting I was paddling across a channel and it would be okay to land at the bottom of the cliffs on the other side. Progress was painful, it was only the robotic rhythm of paddling that kept me going. Then suddenly the cliffs dropped away and I saw evidence of a town.
    The entrance to Kalbarri is a complicated affair. During my preparations, I’d spent many hours studying it on Google Earth to give me a good feeling about it. But a photo taken from space at high tide looked different from the impossible maze of rocks and surf I was faced with. From my low viewpoint sitting in the kayak, I barely recognised the place as I tried to make judgements about how I’d get through the entrance. I was missing that good feeling. I was at the entrance to the harbour and could see houses on the shore, but between me and them it looked like angry, foaming white water. The Murchison River runs into the sea at Kalbarri and its final obstacle is a reef that forces the river to run north to south then bend itself back to run south to north into the sea. As I looked into the entrance I saw the surf breaking over rocks on the ocean side then rolling for 100 metres across the river onto a low submerged reef on the other side.
    Recognising that I was reaching the end of what I was physically capable of, I stuffed the last of the chocolate in me and made a conscious effort to double-check my decisions. I knew I couldn’t afford to relax even though the end was agonisingly close.
    Suddenly, to my amazement, I saw a surf ski winding its way through the war zone towards me. One moment it was there, next it was gone, hidden by surf. Was I hallucinating again? Or was it just wishful thinking? But then he appeared in front of me, and he was real.
    I tried to prepare myself for the inevitable question and answer session about what I was doing out there and why, while trying to hide how knackered I was. But before I could speak he said, ‘You must be Stuart Trueman, follow me.’
    I was floored. I had just passed the middle of nowhere, I knew nobody for thousands of kilometres, yet not only did this guy know my name but the only reason he was there was to show me the way through the river entrance.
    I used the last of my energy to keep up with him and as we committed ourselves and he changed the angle of approach, the way through opened up for us. When the nose of the kayak pushed itself against the sand, I just sat there—spent, hollow, empty. The realisation of what I’d just done was nowhere; all I registered was I didn’t have to paddle any more.
    After a few moments of staring off into the distance while my mystery guide held my kayak steady, waiting for me to jump out, my first thought was that I’d just spent 35 hours sitting in my own urine. I quickly glanced up and down the beach and noticed there were a few people around showing a bit of interest. I thought it would be better to be remembered for paddling from Steep Point than to be remembered for the stink. So before curiosity forced them to their feet to check me out, I half-stood half-fell into the sea for an attempt at hygiene. After a brief rinse my wobbly legs gained enough strength to allow me to walk up the beach and thank my guide.
    Phil Hearps was a member of the Kalbarri rescue services and, unknown to me, the ranger at Steep Point had rung him and explained my plans. Phil estimated my arrival time and, knowing how difficult the