Week Nineteen - Kayak-aze
Let me set the scene for the second ‘Malaysian Edition’ challenge. Matt and I were on a beach on the larger Perhentian island, just off the north east coast of Malaysia. It was low season, so we pretty much had the beach to ourselves. We lounged in homemade hammocks pitched up in the shady parts of the shore line, staring out onto beautiful turquoise sea with sand so fine you could mistake it for flour coating your bare feet. The previous day we’d been on a five hour snorkelling trip, where we were lucky enough to see almost the entire cast of Finding Nemo. We swam amongst reef sharks, clown fish and turtles before heading back to barbecued fresh squid and prawns the size of your head. As far as holidays go, it wasn’t too shabby.
Until we factored in my second challenge.
We woke up at 7am, and had the biggest breakfast feast we could stomach (two types of pancakes, roti canai, and eggs and beans on toast). We armed ourselves with water and suncream, and some serious mental strength. We’d both covered up by wearing a selection of Matt’s shorts and T-Shirts - both drawing the short straw with me sporting Matt’s Beer Lao T-shirt with bright red ink splattered all over it, and Matt wearing a tight black sports top which smelt slightly cheesy after we’d unsuccessfully attempted a travel wash load in a bucket the night before. We headed down the beach and approached a friendly man with a small row of kayaks on display in the sand. We asked if it was possible to kayak round the island. He said it probably was, but not many people choose to do it. And then he laughed, as he took our money and our optimism, handing us an oar each.
I should point out now that it’s been about 6 years since I’ve kayaked, and my upper body strength is terrible. Matt’s is better, but he isn’t exactly a keen kayaker either. By our estimations, the island was roughly around 12K in circumference (if you cut across the bays - which was an obvious necessity.) The temperature had been reaching mid to high thirties in the heat of the day. This was going to be an extremely tough challenge. Plus there was always the chance that one of us would end up killing the other.
We clambered in to the kayak, and with a big push from our friend we were off. The weather was mercifully cloudy and mild, and we rowed confidently towards the big blue ocean. Having lazed on a beach for a few days, it felt great to actually be achieving something, and with every stroke I felt more and more elated.
But the elation was short lived. It was about 10 minutes in before I had a small confession to make. My forearms were already beginning to burn, and we weren’t even out of our little cove yet. I reluctantly relayed this information to Matt who, to my dismay, echoed my feelings of inadequacy. We looked behind us and realised we were probably about half way out the bay. But if either of us felt entirely dejected and hopeless (I know I did) we certainly didn’t show it. Instead we ploughed on through until we reached open water and began to follow the island’s coast line.
After another half an hour or so of gruelling strokes, we decided a motivational sing-along might be in order. We belted out several big tunes, starting with the ever popular Up-Town Funk, riding a musical journey all the way to Montel Jordan’s classic ‘This is how we do it’, and finishing on a fairly screechy rendition of ‘Angels’. I’m sure Robbie Williams would have been extremely touched. As we harmonised our way through the last notes, the sun started to break through the clouds, which was a glorious confidence boost. Even if nobody else got to hear them, at least nature approved of our slightly dodgy covers - or at least that’s what we told ourselves.
Good spirits, awful attire
Despite the cheery singing, we were very much struggling against the current, wishing we’d at least brought a map with us as we attempted to predict how far round we were. Matt began to flag, and I noticed that I seemed to be rowing solo more and more frequently as we continued. I felt a little annoyed with his efforts at this point, here I was giving it my all and he was slacking off and taking breaks.
I downed tools and asked if he was ok. He looked exhausted, frustrated, and incredibly overheated. And then he admitted something to me. His t-shirt, although great for wearing in water, wasn’t in fact a rash vest. It was actually a thermal sports shirt, something which had only just occurred to him. Unable to contain myself, I snorted with laughter at his misfortune. And thankfully he joined me until we both had tears rolling down our cheeks. Matt removed the offending shirt and put on his life jacket to save his shoulders from the increasingly relentless sun.
My annoyance had faded, and I began to feel guilty about dragging him into this with me. He didn’t have to be here, and yet he was. So I bellowed words of encouragement and we began rowing in tandem once more, thanks largely to our very own jody call we made up. There were quite a few variations, but here’s the one I remember clearly:
“I don’t know but I’ve been told,
I don’t know but I’ve been told,
Kayaking makes me feel old,
Kayaking makes me feel old.
I don’t know but it’s been said,
I don’t know but it’s been said,
It’s enough to make you wish you were dead,
It’s enough to make you wish you were dead.”
You could argue that it wasn’t so much motivational as it was self-pitying, and our unimaginative rhyming abilities began to reflect our building feelings of bleak desperation. From here, we powered through wordlessly, our silence speaking volumes. We were becoming exhausted, and the sweltering temperatures were beginning to play their part in our slow decline.
After a huge push, and what felt like at least an hour of rowing, we rounded another peak tentatively, eager to see what would be waiting for us, but frightened we’d be sorely disappointed. But we weren’t! As we peered round we saw the other island - we were half way through! Feeling like absolute kings we wooped and cheered and glugged down water and lathered on sunscreen like the unstoppable dons that we were. Grinning from ear to ear we rejoiced, and for a moment I misplaced my sanity, suggesting we contemplate kayaking round both islands. Thankfully Matt made me see sense.
Unfortunately for us, our celebrations were short-lived. In all the excitement, Matt had let go of his oar, and it was now drifting rapidly away from us. He found this hilarious. I found it less so. I splashed towards it angrily, generously coating him with water as I repeatedly called him an idiot (looking back, it was actually pretty funny, but at the time I couldn’t be told). It was at this point that a speed boat carrying a load of eager snorkelers drove past, laughing at our bright red faces as we huffed and puffed trying to snatch the rogue oar. Smug bastards.
Finally, and with no thanks to them, we retrieved the oar, and luckily hadn’t gone too far off course with all the commotion. We drew a line under the incident and decided to be friends again.
The sun was beating down ferociously, and we knew that we were approaching the heat of the day, which meant we’d been at it for about two hours. With the current on our side, we began to row vigorously, cashing in on the extra little push, and before long we’d managed an impressive stretch.
It was then that I noticed the rowing going on behind me was perhaps a little too vigorous. And then it stopped altogether. Next it was replaced by huge splashes and a good measure of swearing. Matt was having what could only be described as a rather extraordinary hissy fit.
I mananged to compose myself and maintain a straight face as I turned round to ask him if he was ok. Apparently he was not. The sun was in his eyes (he hadn’t brought sunglasses because it was overcast when we left), and his back was hurting (no matter how much sympathy I threw his way, I couldn’t possibly understand this because I’m not as tall as him). I was understandably in the firing line, after all we were only doing this because of me. I felt bad for him, it was tough work and he had a banging headache from all the squinting. So I did what any other British person in my situation would do… significantly increased my own discomfort in order to ease his. I donated my sunglasses (trying not to think of the L’Oréal advert about early onset wrinkles) and offered up my lifejacket as extra padding behind his back.
Matt in happier, but no less squinty, times
With the crisis averted, Matt returned to good spirits as we struggled through the rest of the west coast. This side was the most built up, and we bitched happily about all the people on their sun loungers in the posh bits. What idiots, we laughed; they were throwing money at a tiny patch of sand crowded with sun loungers, whilst we were paying a fraction of the price to have pretty much an entire beach to ourselves.
As we rounded the fourth corner, we were both extremely exhausted. We could see snorkelling trips quite some way in the distance, and prayed it was shark point (a patch of reef known for baby sharks, located to the far right as you looked out of our little bay). As we swigged our last mouthfuls of water, and slathered on a little more suncream, we encountered some fellow kayakers.
At first it was all friendly and waving. And then something in the air shifted slightly. This was a competition. Like when you’re strolling casually down the street and somebody slightly faster than you bristles past. You know you’re faster than them, and yet they think they can just waltz on through. So you do what any rational human being would - you get your power walk on and strut right past that person until you can’t see them anymore. It doesn’t matter if you’re breathing erratically, or if your calves are burning, you will show them who’s the boss of walking around here. (I’m certain I'm not the only person who does this).
And it doesn’t matter whether you’re treading pavement or slaying the water, the principles are the same. In wordless communication, we tossed the suncream aside and reached for our oars. We then proceeded to row as fast as we could, with fake smiles plastered on our greedy little competitive faces.
After some ruthless oar work, we chanced a glance behind us. We were significantly further ahead… It was safe to ease off and smugly bask in the glow of our success.
And we rode that success all the way to the outskirts of familiar territory: Flora Bay, our home from home. And when I say familiar territory, I mean that there was a lot of uncertain squinting into the distance, a lengthly debate about whether it was actually our cove, and lots of asking random strangers in boats who knew just as little as we did.
Once we were about 90% sure, we committed to rowing ashore. Utterly exhausted, we began to fall into an unsteady rhythm a short distance into the bay. It felt like we were totally out of sync in our bid to get back as quickly as possible. I voiced my concerns to Matt, who assured me he was sticking to the same strokes. But I wasn’t convinced. Tired and frustrated, I asked him if he was sure. He sarcastically replied that he was pretty sure, since he was the only one of the two of us who could actually see what was going on. It was a typical lovers tiff, and my turn to be stroppy.
My rowing got more frantic, and a lot more splashy. I was aware that I was probably dowsing him generously in water, and I didn’t care. I got away with it for a while, letting my frustrations out on the water whilst sporting a face of thunder, until Matt eventually asked what was wrong. Thankfully, after a few frustrated tears (from me), we diffused the situation amicably, and soon enough we were triumphantly taking our last strokes in shallow waters.
We waited for the satisfying ‘thump’ of kayak on sand, and steadily eased ourselves out of the kayak. With jelly legs, we stumbled around feeling much like Ariel in the Little Mermaid (more specifically, the part where she substitutes her fishtail for a pair of pins and clumsily falls about the place wearing a sheet). Once we’d acclimatised to land again, we stripped off and ran into the sea before posing, victorious, with our oars, like the total chumps we were.
Who the hell are these low lit idiots?
We walked steadily back to our hut, glugged as much water as we could and ordered more food than is physically possible for any two human beings to consume in one sitting. We glanced up at the clock and worked out that we’d completed the expedition in around four and a half hours. Not bad going for a couple of moderately unfit, roti canai loving novices.
