The story is the metaphor
Thursday afternoon 3rd March 2022. 1255hrs, the view from South Head looking east. I’ve already attempted to paddle across the heads but turned back. In an hour I will have succeeded and changed my life in the process.
A year ago (March 2021), a few of us signed up for the ocean (kayak) race Bridge to Beach that had been changed due to the weather conditions. We were required to get over to Manly for the start and agreed it made sense to paddle to the start line (Strava link). The forecast was bad. There was a big swell coming through the heads. We didn’t even get close. Had we made it to the start, we would have been late, and we would have performed poorly due to being tired. Here’s what I wrote on Strava at the time:
20-25kn winds, gusts over 30kn. Attempted to get to Manly for a race. Gave up and turned back. Too much swell and wind. The ferry was struggling, so were we.
Once again I wish I had brought my ski goggles when the rain was hitting me in the face at 60km/hr. You can try this at home by putting your head out of a car driving at 60km/hr in the rain. Let me know how this goes for you.
Sunday morning 21st March 2021. 0945hrs standing at Bradleys Head looking west heading back home on my first and only harbour downwinder. You can appreciate the strength of the wind by looking at the top of the ocean. Strava link.
Looking back at the photos and videos, I see two things. The first is that once the wind is pushing above 20kn (knots*), you start to notice this. Above 30kn, you can see the changes in the water. The second thing I notice is that whilst the swell (wave height) was big through the heads, the swell was smaller than what I went out in March 2022. Sea conditions need to be considered in the context of wave height and wind speed. 2021 was probably on par difficulty-wise with 2022. The difference in 2022?
I was by myself.
*One knot (nautical miles per hour) is roughly 1.85km/hr. A rule of thumb I use is to double knots and then subtract ‘a bit’. That or you could memorise your 1.85 times table.
Six months earlier in September 2020 was the first time I went outside the heads by myself.
For someone that has been kayaking for close to a decade, I've never liked the sea. I've got nothing against the sea, I'm just fucking scared. Today I went out by myself and found another gear in life.
Getting out to the heads was not straight forward and as I crossed out to the great expanse of the unknown I started to feel a bit nervous. I missed a few strokes, I started sitting back, I stopped talking to myself. I focussed on the next corner and getting through. The conditions were more than I wanted for my first solo sea kayak trip, but they were not overwhelming. On the fear scale, they were 4-5.
Sunday afternoon 6th September 2020. 1530hrs in the ski at Manly Cove Beach looking south towards the city. This was after being outside the heads for the first time by myself. The water is calm and still, not that you’d know from my trip report where I reported my experience as 4-5 on my fear scale. Strava link.
In March 2021 I called the trip off in the heads (technically before if you look at our route) and said we're not doing this. Of the two other people one was significantly more experienced the other person significantly less experienced. We were relying on the (often poor) judgement of the experienced person. In hindsight, I was a bit gung-ho (naive?), thinking we'd be fine to get across. A year later, I went out solo in similar conditions and crossed the heads.
The story is the metaphor.
You can go from being the person being guided to the guide in a year. This report doesn’t detail what I went through physically and emotionally to overcome my fear of the sea. Still, you can imagine what I must have experienced to go from the photo above to the video below.
This time the crossing required two attempts. Like a year ago, the first time I saw the towering waves of water and got nervous. I turned around. On the way back to Camp Cove, I saw a ferry next to me. I looked over, and it sat there. Then we both waited for the swell to roll in. We surfed the wave together. I may never have the experience of surfing a 4m+ wave (poorly) in the heads next to a ferry again. The metaphor is the story.
Back at Camp Cove, I looked at the ocean and watched the ferries pitching into the swell. I realised that what defines us is not fear but those that walk into this space, not walk away. Whether I make it across today doesn't matter. What matters is that I go out again and keep going out until I succeed.
Thursday 3rd March 2022. 1300hrs standing at South Head looking north towards Manly as the ferries pitch into the swell coming through the heads. These conditions were due to an east coast low. I’d be exactly where the ferry is in these conditions in half an hour (by myself). Wave height on the ocean is like hill steepness when riding, photos do not do the experience justice. Strava link.
Money buys a lot of things, but it doesn't buy what matters to me - mental resilience, the pursuit of what most people are not willing to do, to overcome our fears, to live our lives as though they may not continue.
I've written about death more than once. In January 2021 I set out on a 'timed ride'. It's an idea that I've not seen anyone else do. A timed ride ends when the clock counts down, it doesn't matter where you are or if you're ready. If you stuff around during the ride you don't get the time back, just as we all know with life. I said at the time:
People seem to like telling me stories of those who have terrible accidents, got stuck out for hours etc. I had this conversation on Sunday as I was riding north. The guy telling me this understood that riding solo really increases the risk factor, but he also agreed there are not many people who would want to come riding with me. This is an interesting conundrum. I have no plans to make my rides easier, I think they're too easy at the moment, so I guess I'll continue to be riding solo.
Sunday afternoon 31st January 2021. 1530hrs standing on the edge of Bouddi National Park looking east. I’d walked down here as part of my experiment with a ‘timed ride’. Strava link.
Looking back on 2021, I realise the investment I made in myself to go out and do hard things. Often by myself. Not by choice, but I'm not going to wait around for someone else to turn up and hold my hand. This is arguably the best investment I have ever made.
The story is the metaphor.
When I saw a glimmer of blue sky, I knew that was enough to give me the confidence to have another go crossing the heads. As I watched the waves roll in, I just kept moving forward. Halfway across the heads you go from seeing the waves and having to go over them, to having the waves come from behind. Unlike most people, what I can’t see doesn’t bother me too much. I find going into the swell much more emotionally draining. Heading back, I had to track directly into the swell. The sets tower over you, just like the movies. The long period (12s) meant that the boat would never be flipped over as there was plenty of time to crest each wave. Crossing the heads in these conditions is an achievement. What I'm proud of is I never once soft paddled. I never lost my confidence. I never thought I shouldn't be out here.
The harbour was all but devoid of vessels. There were no other kayakers out today. The obvious question is why? Why do so many people with better gear sit at home instead of going out? I can't answer that.
Thursday afternoon 3rd March 2022. 1615hrs rounding Bradleys Head on the way home after crossing the heads twice in a 4.5m+ swell. Strava link.
The ferries don't track directly across the heads when it's rough. Instead, the ferries head out to sea, making a sharp turn to go with the swell. This means they don't get battered from the side. Although there is almost no one out in the harbour, you end up watching ferries navigate the heads whilst you're out there with them. Their size and speed advantage is all but nullified in these conditions.
A week ago, a friend of mine, an exceptional trail runner, broke his neck in a mountain biking accident and will never walk again. It's incredibly fucking sad. He describes the nights as "... the hardest when I'm alone with his thoughts and the realisation of just how life-changing one moment can be. " The grief he's experiencing and the trauma that his partner is going through breaks my fucking heart.
Thursday evening 3rd March 2022. 1830hrs walking back along the Glebe foreshore, I captured this photo with the last of my phone battery (hence the poor composition). On a day where I experienced so much emotion, there was joy and delight in seeing the sky light up with a rainbow. Strava link.
It's been raining in Sydney for a few weeks, and most people are sitting inside moaning about the weather. I can't ride my bike. It's raining. I might get wet.
Jesus fucking christ. I wonder what it would take for people to realise that your life can change in a moment. You may never get another chance to do what you think you will. I look at the wealth and opportunity tied up inside safe and comfortable houses. I wouldn't trade what I have for any amount of money.
The story is the metaphor.