Kayaking in the Abel Tasman National Park
The highs and lows of using an inflatable kayak in the sea
On a ship’s maiden voyage, it is traditional for a bottle of champagne to be smashed against its hull as it first enters the water. I’m not sure if this applies to kayaks, too, but given ours was inflatable, it wasn’t an option. I wonder if our failure to adhere to this seafaring tradition had something to do with our woes that day. Or was it that inflatable kayaks aren’t meant for the sea?
Laura and I viewed several campervans before we bought Tiger-Lily. All had their plus points, but none tugged at our imagination like her. The closest rival was more spacious, younger, and laden with more equipment (a kayak, for one thing), but it didn’t have the same character. The same feel. Without a doubt, we could have lived in that van. But Tiger-Lily was home, and we knew it straight away.
Meandering our way around New Zealand’s South Island, we settled into the rhythm of our new life. Up early, sipping coffee in the morning air. Alfresco dining every night. Never in a rush. Always time to stop and see what was around us. If we so chose, we could stop for days in one place (overnight parking rules permitting), allowing us to fully explore the area.
We crept north from Christchurch, hugging the east coast, barring a trip inland to Hanmer Springs, up to Marlborough Sounds. Here, the seed of owning a kayak that the viewing of the other van had planted began to germinate. The idea formed of getting out on calm waters and exploring the almost endless coves and bays, of having the possibility to paddle next to a pod of dolphins or even (longshot, I know) orca.
We wouldn’t only do it here, either. New Zealand is littered with lakes and rivers, many perfect for kayaking. Over the next few days, this idea came to dominate many of our conversations.
Unfortunately, kayaks are not cheap. Once we had factored in that we had nowhere to put one, Tiger-Lily did not have a roof rack, and we had to keep to a strict budget — we decided not to buy one. We did pick up a small, inflatable dinghy for less than NZ$50 and trialled it in the waters around Anakiwa. But all that got us was frustrated. Paddling in circles, blown off course by the slightest breeze and dragged along by the faintest current, it was quickly abandoned.
Every kayak strapped to the roof of a van and every person paddling across a body of water was a reminder of what we could be doing. What we were missing out on. Jealousy is not a pretty quality, I know, but it is a powerful force.
We set about rectifying our kayak-less status.
After much discussion, we settled on a plan. An actual kayak was a no-go. Looking at all costs — the kayak itself, the roof rack and straps to store it, and the life jackets — it was far too expensive. An inflatable kayak, on the other hand, was affordable. It also had the benefit of being able to fold away, squeezed back into its box, and stored under our bed. More durable and streamlined than the dinghy, as well as being more economical than a rigid kayak, it was the perfect solution.
Abel Tasman National Park, at the northwest tip of South Island, is New Zealand’s smallest national park. A pint-sized pocket of natural beauty. Carpeted in regenerating native forests, alive with bird song, and edged in golden sandy beaches nestled between rocky headlands that reach out into the azure blue waters that border it, a sea kayaker’s paradise. This is where we gave our kayak her maiden voyage.
We pulled up and parked on the waterfront. Under the glow of the morning sun, we laid out the kayak and began inflating. The sea was calm, with a slight breeze from onshore. It was an ideal day for kayaking, and plenty of people were already out on the water.
This both comforted us and forced a splinter of doubt into our minds. They all had traditional sea kayaks. We had an inflatable kayak that we had never used before. We had pumped it up to ensure it would stay inflated, but that was it.
Was this a wise move?
After a quick conversation, we decided to get out on the water and have a paddle, judging how we felt before straying away from the shore. This quickly allayed our fears. We could manoeuvre the kayak easily; it held to the course we paddled and was rigid enough to break through the small waves we crossed. No drifting about on currents. No being blown by the wind. In short, none of the dinghy issues.
Tails up, we broke free from the shallows and paddled towards our planned destination. A beach, across the bay and around the headland. With every stroke that propelled us forward, our confidence grew.
This was it. We were water people now. Destined to paddle our way across every rippled, watery surface New Zealand had to offer.
The people in their traditional kayaks were undoubtedly quicker across the water than us. But that didn’t matter; we were in no hurry. There was no need to race toward our target. With the breeze at our back, we fell into a pattern of paddling, long, leisurely strokes for sets of one hundred, before pausing to enjoy our surroundings and rest. After gently bobbing around briefly, plunging our hands in the cold, refreshing water, we started back up and repeated the cycle.
This routine served us well, and we arrived at our destination after about an hour and a half, full of excitement and enthusiasm for our new hobby.
The beach was all but deserted. One small group at the far end were the only other visitors. We hauled our kayak out of the water, dragging it past the tideline. A dip in the waters around New Zealand is usually a bracing experience. But, after an hour and a half of paddling, the icy waters were a welcome tonic for tiring muscles.
The midday sun worked its magic, warming our skin and drying our clothes as we explored the forest-fringed beach before we ate our picnic. Bellies full, it wasn’t long before we settled down to doze and digest. A glorious couple of hours.
We stretched out the stiffness that had taken hold of our limbs during our snooze. Before our nap, Laura had floated the idea of paddling over to an offshore island that didn’t look too far away. Our post-nap lethargy meant it seemed much further away, so we thought it best to head home.
As we left the beach, it became clear that paddling was more of an effort. Not only had our muscles tightened, but we were now paddling against the tide. Where before we had the benefit of the sea gently nudging us along, now every stroke was a fight against the flow.
We tried to pick up our old rhythm.
Paddling out, we could pause and rest after every hundred strokes. Now, if we stopped, the tide started to turn our kayak, pushing us back and losing us hard paddled ground. No choice but to keep going. No resting on this leg. We persevered, and our muscles began to move more freely. We found a new rhythm. It was slow, but we made progress.
Then we turned the corner at the headland.
The gentle breeze that guided us on our outward journey had strengthened significantly. As we rounded the corner, it slapped us square in the face.
We came to an almost complete stop.
The trouble with the wind was two-fold. Firstly, it was now intent on pushing us backwards. Second was the effect it had on the sea. It was far choppier now. An increased rise and fall in each wave meant we no longer broke through them cleanly. The kayak flexed and folded with each wave, making paddling a less-than-smooth process.
As we inched forward, fleets of sea kayaks passed us. All rigid, all cutting through the waves, all gliding along in an effortless mockery of our struggling progress. We scanned the shoreline to see if there was a closer place we could land. Maybe carry the kayak from there.
No such luck.
There was no choice but to carry on. Head down, shoulders drowning in lactic acid, we forced our paddles through the water time after time. It felt like we were on a watery treadmill. Every time I looked up, our goal appeared no closer. We were on a never-ending paddle to nowhere.
Tired bodies lead to tired minds. And a tired mind wanders into strange places. What if we never make it? We could get lost at sea here. Nobody knows we are kayaking today — nobody will come looking.
We were no longer water people. We no longer wanted to paddle the length and breadth of New Zealand’s waterways. Tired and getting emotional, worst-case scenarios grew evermore plausible. We wanted out.
A lively debate about our situation ensued. This was not helpful for the amount of paddling being done, which was briefly abandoned, but it did energize us. We resolved to focus and get back to land.
As we had tired, we had become focused on ourselves, and our paddling had drifted out of sync, no doubt contributing to our lack of progress. We set about working as a team again. Concentrating on technique and timing. Our paddles working as one, we began to feel like there was hope.
With renewed vigour, we edged closer to shore, every stroke feeling like an accomplishment. Confidence began to flow through our veins again as we got our collective second wind. (Which, ironically, coincided with the actual wind abating.)
We eventually made it back to shore. It took us a full hour longer on the way back, and we had worked hard with every stroke. Exhausted but elated, we heaved our kayak out of the sea and opened the air valves. We sat silently, watching the sea as the air left our vessel in a slow, weary deflation.
We garnered great enjoyment from using that kayak many times during our stay in New Zealand. But we never ventured out onto the sea in it after that day.
If you have an inflatable kayak, take my advice — stick to lakes. Do not even think of going near the ocean.
Thank you for taking the time to read this article.
