Waka & Waewae Day 5 – Port (Point) Chevalier to Big Bay
The time had come to pick this raft thing up again.
Quitting the Waka & Waewae Journey, when I fell down in a sweaty heap at the Pukenui Holiday Park and said “no more”, seemed like an event from a former life. Stopping and spending time with whānau in Auckland had been relaxing and regenerative. I felt charged. The burn-out I was suffering as a result of 2021 was a distant memory. As were the extreme summer temperatures I’d faced in the Far North.
It was the 13th of March, a Sunday, when I carried the raft – and a freshly lightened pack – through my sister’s garden and down to the water near Point (Port) Chevalier. The sun was out, making a warm autumn day on the Waitematā Harbour. I fiddled on the slippery mud, securing my pack to the boat’s bow. Then, with a wave to Sarah, her partner Seb and my favourite nephew Arlo, I jumped aboard and paddled like all hell, heading north, to catch the incoming tide up the Whau River. We were back!
See the route I took on Strava - click here!
Once level with the busy Point Chev Beach, my left shoulder twinged on a paddle stroke. The sensation of a trapped nerve sent shockwaves through my body. “Ouch, gonna have to watch that!” I told the water, the air and the scores of beach goers 100 metres away. It happened several more times during the day, except while looking hard to my right, it seemed. I made a note to always look right, at least for the rest of this journey.
Several large motor cruisers were heading in as we reached the Whau Channel, their wake making for a lot of rock ‘n’ roll on the water. I rode over some of it forwards and some of it backwards. Just for fun. It seemed like good stability practice.
Clear of big boats, it was my turn to race up the channel. With the tide as my guide, I cleared Te Atatū Peninsular, passed under the State Highway 16 motorway bridge and cruised past the many boats of the yacht club. People aboard their boats waved cheerily as we bobbed past.
After several meanders round the industrial, mud-laden river, I came into my first changeover, at a boat ramp in Archibald Park, near Kelston. We were in West Auckland!
Hungry, I chose a goose-poop-free space (I hope!) on the grass and chomped a couple of peanut butter sammies. As I sat, a man landed on the ramp from upstream. He was riding an open-top kayak, with a little electric motor. Clearly buzzing from his adventure up the creek to New Lynn, we exchanged experiences. He wanted to know all the potential landing spots down river. I love a good Sunday explorer.
Traditionally, Portage Road (or at least its route) would have been the way to transfer one’s waka between the Waitematā and Manukau Harbours, however the tides didn’t align on this day. Instead, I had to walk west towards Titirangi and Laingholm and make the Manukau crossing to Āwhitu using the relative safety of an incoming tide. While the currents cut the risk of getting accidentally swept out onto the raging Tasman Sea, there were still sharks out there. And sharks scare the the goose poop out of me. One prod and a taster bite in an inflatable raft and you might as well be an injured seal, hiding in a Happy Meal box.
As I trekked the streets of Kelston and Glen Eden, taking Pleasant Road as my portage road (a pleasant alternative), I ran over and over the plan in my head: launch at Sandy Beach, in Parau, then head due south, with a westerly hint, to Cornwallis Peninsula, gap it across the mouth at the shortest point and land at Big Bay. Time was getting on, so any hopes of squeezing in the extra 9km to Āwhitu Regional Park had sailed: Big Bay was now the destination.
From the rainforest-clad village of Titirangi, I took a side-quest to the summit of Mt Atkinson and stared pensively over the Manukau Harbour’s vast expanse of water. “It looks flat to me from here,” I reassured myself. I then snuck down onto the historic Exhibition Drive, for a flatter and traffic-free alternative to Huia Road. Scores of Sunday walkers were out. I swiftly overtook many of them, channelling my Friday night M25 commute, from my former life as a UK DJ.
At Mackies Rest, where the track becomes a road, I unplugged my pack and rested on the seat. It offers nice views of the harbour, some Waitākere Ranges native bush and the Lower Nihotupu Reservoir. Several older women I’d passed caught up and joined me at the bench. I told them of my journey and of my shark nerves. I received some sympathy, but also jokes; “oh well, if we see you on the news tonight, we’ll know you didn’t make it!” said one.
On the outskirts of Parau, I filled my bottles from the mystery tap in the car park for the now-shut tramping tracks. Too tight to fully turn off, it just sits there, springing away into an old ice cream container. Unable to remember if it was deemed potable or not, I filtered it anyway.
Arriving at Sandy Beach Reserve was an eye-opening experience. A brand-new concrete road led down the hill, past beautifully-mown lawns and a bunch of packed tennis courts. I wondered if I had fallen through a portal and into the grounds of a Beverly Hills mansion.
As I stepped onto the beach, I took a deep gasp of air. This was it, I was about to launch on the Manukau. The tide was high, the waves gently lapped on the coarse sand. A family played happily in the water, providing me comfort since they had not, at that time, been eaten, nor mauled, by any scary big fish.
I swiftly and calmly inflated the raft. It was getting on for 6pm, leaving a mere 90 minutes of daylight. Without noticing, I left my raft strap on the grass above the beach. I hope whoever found it is using it or put it in the bin and it didn’t end up in the ocean.
For the second time that day, the raft was loaded. For the second time that day, I set off on an Auckland harbour.
In the early evening light, I paddled down the Wairopa Channel, roughly headed for Cornwallis. I’d read online that the tides were very strong in that part of the harbour. I didn’t find that was the case, though. I was able to easily navigate the raft, cumbersome as it can be, against the incoming current. It wasn’t a fast paddle, but I was gaining ground (or water?).
Fight or flight was fully activated. My senses were on high alert, particularly my eyes which, assisted by my owl-like neck, were constantly scanning the horizon for sharks. There were no confirmed sightings, despite several claims by my eyes.
I took comfort when I saw two people fishing in kayaks off Cornwallis Beach. They’d survived and they were literally baiting shark bait!
The light was starting to fade as I passed Cornwallis wharf, a popular fishing spot. A small tin motorboat bobbed by slowly. It was full of people, returning home after a day out. “Are you fishing?” a lady passenger called to me. “No, just cruising,” I said, nodding in the direction of Big Bay. “Errr… okay, take care,” she replied. I think she had figured out my intentions and did not approve.
Whether or not the next 45 minutes or so constituted “taking care”, I don’t know, but they were some of the most exhilarating and crazy minutes I have ever lived. First up came the sea swells. Gentle was the wind, so the waves were low, but the swells were not. My eyes, without any help from my neck, acted as a depth sounder and found them to be at least one metre. We were basically at sea! As we passed the end of Cornwallis, I peered out across the bar and caught a glimpse of the sun, orange and dipping towards Whatipū, the beach on the harbour’s northern head. “Wow!” I exclaimed, heart thumping, spellbound by the sight of its glow, making silhouettes of the beach’s stumpy islands: Paratutae and Te-Toka-Tapu-a-Kupe.
I wanted to look, I wanted to stay, I wanted to take one decent photograph of this experience never-to-be-repeated, but I had to go. To linger could be to duffer. I pointed my vessel at the scarily-named Mako Point, at the northern end of Big Bay, and paddled like my life depended on it. Here I was at sundown, looking out to sea towards Australia, in a little inflatable boat; it kinda did depend on it!
Minutes passed, Mako Point didn’t get any closer, yet Cornwallis appeared to be further away. I paddled on, timing every stroke for maximum efficiency. My pulse was racing. It might have been the paddling, it might have been the fear; most likely a cocktail of both. Was this how it ended? Not if I could help it! I didn’t have time to stop, I couldn’t be looking like prey, motionless on the surface; I had to keep moving! A splash ahead of the boat made me shift my course. “One, two, three… ten,” I adjusted my course back towards Shark Point.
After what seemed like a year, or twenty minutes, I neared the orange, crumbly sandstone cliffs of the point. I was at Āwhitu. Pōhutukawa trees draped their branches towards the sea. There were no sharks to be seen!
Inside the bay, I called the campground and asked if they had room for a “crazy kayaker who’d decided to gap it across the harbour late at night”. Of course they did, it was a Sunday night, during Covid and out of peak season!
I landed on the beach in almost-darkness, loosely rolled up my raft and marched over the road to the camp. “Where’s your boat?” asked Helen the campground owner. “Just there,” I pointed to the flaccid piece of soft plastic, coated in sand in a crumpled heap on her deck. The ridiculousness of what I’d just attempted/executed/gotten away with hit home: that was the maddest and most captivating thing I’d ever done! That was me pushing me beyond me. And what a way to come back into this adventure!
Kia ora and thanks for supporting this adventure! The Waka & Waewae Journey is raising money for the Mental Health Foundation, Cancer Society and UNICEF’s Ukraine appeal. If you’re able to donate or simply share my Givealittle fundraiser with your circles, that would be amazing. Ngā mihi nui!