Kayaking Fitzroy Island, Queensland

‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak’. That about sums up my outlook on the athletic lifestyle. I had never expected to go kayaking in my life, let alone doing so in such a picturesque part of the world. Fitzroy Island is less than half an hour’s boat ride from Cairns. It was our third day of a seventeen-day tour from Cape Tribulation to Sydney, and I was meeting new people and having a fine time. Kayaking turned out to be great fun, and surprisingly easy on the couch potato’s physique, relatively speaking. The day was organised by a fast-growing sports touring company called Raging Thunder, who run tours out of Cairns. I was due to raft the Tully River with these guys in a few days. For now, it was two-man kayaking.

We started on the Fitzroy Island resort beach, about fifty of us – some still trying to come to terms with over-partying the night before. I had spent the previous day hiking to the island’s summit, over a path running through thick scrubland. At the top, the lighthouse and summit rock, displaying three-sixty degrees of stunning scenery. Far below, the resort shone in the afternoon light – the boats at the pier looking like toys. Turning one-eighty degrees, I was confronted by what turned out to be our kayaking destination: the imaginatively named ‘Little’ Fitzroy Island. At the time I paid it little thought.

Our tour guides – eight in all – were all fit and tanned; ‘cool dudes’ all the way. Bandannas over shaved heads or thick blond dreadlocks were the fashion, along with a healthy coating of white zinc over lips and noses. They were guys who would be jobless if not for the jobs they had, and freely admitted it.

The plan for the day was to circumnavigate the island, weather permitting. But first, Marty, the head guide, gave us a crash course in kayaking. A definite rhythm had to be mastered in order for a person not to look like a complete idiot, which is especially important for tandem kayakers. Ideally, the two should paddle in sync, enabling a conservation of energy and increasing the kayak’s speed through the water. The other important thing is to paddle using your shoulders and torso. Should you insist on paddling with your arms, you will find yourself, as Marty put it, ‘quickly wishing you’d listened to him’.

After hauling the heavy fibreglass cocoons into the water, the real challenge came when we tried jumping into the hull’s narrow ‘cockpits’. The term was apt for us. My partner for the day, Jonathan, was a fellow model of the ‘couch-dweller’ physique. He and I made idiots of ourselves, splashing about in chest-high surf trying to mount the accursed vessel. It finally occurred to us that we should do it one at a time. When that didn’t work, we bit the bullet and got Marty and the guys to hoist us up.

With our spraydecks strapped on to make the hull watertight, we were ready to paddle. As the front paddler, it was my job to steer the boat using two pedals at my feet. The anecdote about the moron who couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time came to mind as I tried to keep the boat on a straight course while assisting Jonathan with the paddling. I settled for a compromise – forgetting the pedals until our wayward course presented a physical danger. I felt like I was letting Jonathan down until I realised he was having his own issues keeping his paddling in sync with my own. How we avoided danger through the course of the day I’ll never know.

In the meantime, Marty had scouted ahead in his one-man kayak to check the conditions on the other side of the island. The prognosis: ‘too choppy’. The decision was made to make the safer sojourn to Little Fitzroy Island.

After getting used to the procedure, kayaking became quite enjoyable. All my exertions were forgotten as I smelled the fresh sea air, and let the spray caress my face. After half an hour, I was having a serene time. The coastline to our right was gorgeous, the water a deep blue. We passed pristine beaches and a staggering grey cliff face, with a fringe of bushland poking over the top.

Finally, we landed, disembarking from our vessel with a grace resembling our mounting. Our guides were already busy setting up a generous barbecue lunch. As we dried off, Marty stressed the importance of island respect.
“The only thing you are to leave behind is footprints, the only thing you take away with you is photographs. Respect the island, or we won’t respect you.” Fair enough.
The beach was great, with water so clear I could see the coral reef twenty metres out. After lunch we went snorkelling, followed by a walk through the island’s scrubland. The guides were knowledgeable in the history of the area, and friendly enough to share some laughs. The island had accommodated an outpost of Allied soldiers in World War II, whose job it was to look out for Japanese invasions of the mainland. Ironically, the island is now partly owned by a Japanese resort company. There was little left of the outpost – only a rusted ladder jutting out of a cliff face.

With the tide helping us, the trip back was only half as long. I was in high spirits. The rhythmic cycling of the paddle, combined with the movement of the waves, gave paddling a meditative feel. Along the way, Marty pointed out a large sea turtle, making its way through the pristine water.

I was pleased to feel no muscular discomfort afterwards, and only a slight feeling of tiredness. Our guides even took us back to the resort for some potato wedges and a beer or two. What better way to replace your carbs? It was a perfect way to finish the day.