Paddling down under

August-September 1995

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.

Abel Tasman Park, New Zealand

by Whitney Potter

Beautiful beaches are to be found throughout the Park.

The last colors of dawn are fading as we paddle our kayaks out into the still waters of the Tasman Straits. With only the gentle swish of our paddles, we cut through the mirror smooth waters. In this ghostly calm we glide past hidden coves with turquoise water and white sand beaches skirted by lush tropical rain forest. This is the morning of our last day here. We have been paddling the Abel Tasman Coast for five days but we both know that we have only begun to discover its magic.

Like Tasmania, this spectacular coastline is named for its so-called discoverer. It is said that when Tasman first made contact with the locals at a place now called Observation Beach they were less than friendly. Sensing the development potential of their home and wishing to preserve it, they sent out a canoe to attack and sink one of Tasman's long boats, killing several of his crew. Although the Kiwis of today are a lot more hospitable, it is not hard to see why the original residents guarded this coast so jealously.

The Abel Tasman National Park stretches for about 30 miles along the northern coast of the southern island of New Zealand. This area of the island is the beneficiary of an odd local weather pattern which blesses it with more sunshine than any other part of New Zealand. In five days we had only one overcast morning. The coastline is followed by an easy walking track which connects a series of backpackers' huts like those found on many of New Zealand's more popular tracks such as the Milford Sound. Although the Coastal Track is very popular and the 40 person huts may be packed to overflowing at peak times, there is still plenty of space in the water, and there are many beautiful hidden coves which are inaccessible except from the water. Although power boats are permitted, most are kept away from the coast by shallow water and many jagged reefs, making this coast the domain of the paddler.

Our adventures began at Abel Tasman Kayaks in Marahau where my partner Michelle and I were outfitted with a matching pair of fire engine red sea kayaks. Following about an hour of orientation covering everything from flares and wet re-entries, to why not to eat the shell-fish and what to do if our boats float away without us, we loaded our boats and took a short drive down to the water in an ancient Land Rover.

After putting in at Sandy Bay our instructor paddled with us for a few miles just to make sure everything was working properly and that everybody was getting the hang of paddling. I fell into a paddling rhythm quickly. Although it was the first time I had paddled in years, I had spent many summer afternoons as a child sitting in the sandy bilge of my mother's ancient Folboat and I think the feeling is imprinted in my muscles. Michelle did not have it so easy -- she grew up in the water not on it as I did, and she can probably swim faster than I can paddle, but kayaks were new to her and she was frustrated that she couldn't paddle with the speed and seeming ease that I did.

Tired from our first stretch of paddling we beached for lunch and a rest at a beautiful deserted cove. We whiled away a few hours exploring the fantastic rock formations and napping in the sun before we decided to paddle on to a campsite. When we emerged from our little cove we discovered that the sea breeze had died down and the water was glassy smooth. Paddling was effortless as we glided through the reddening light of the late afternoon.

Mosquito Bay, where we camped for the night, did not live up to its name. The only bothersome insects are the sand flies which are so small they can't be seen, only felt when they bite you. You can only imagine how paddling an hour with a few of these little buggers trapped under your spraydeck can bring you to the edge of sanity.

We arrived at low tide so we had to unload and carry our boats across about 100 yards of tidal zone. Although we had hoped for solitude by choosing a campsite accessible only by sea kayak, a few other paddlers had the same idea, and we shared the bay with three other parties. The campsites are carved out of a wooded sand bar just above the high tide line at the head of the small bay. Most of the park is wilderness and the campsites are well developed to concentrate human impact to small areas. They are equipped with a picnic table, a fire box, and a pit toilet which the Kiwi's refer to rather descriptively as the "long-drop."

After dinner we secured the kayaks and snuggled into our bags for the night. Aside from the occasional drunken noises of our neighbors it was a perfectly tranquil scene. Sometime after midnight a little worry alarm in my head woke me up. When we had gone to bed, we were put to sleep by the gentle sound of waves in the distance. Now the waves sounded like they were lapping just inches from our heads. I quickly got up and snuck out of the tent, trying not to disturb my sleeping companion. Peering over the brush at the edge of the sand bar I was captured by an amazing sight.

The tide had come in and the 100 yards of beach that we had carried our boats over were now under several feet of water. A full moon, low and huge on the horizon shown down, painting a rippling white blaze on the calm blue-black waters of the bay. I stood gaping in amazement for several minutes before I realized I was not alone. On the beach, a few feet from the brush where I stood sat the group of six paddlers who had earlier annoyed me with their drunken antics. They sat silently captured by the serenity of the scene. Each one gazed out at the bay, as unaware of the others as I had been of them just moments before. The stinging bite of a sand fly awoke me from my blissful state of self-nothingness. I took a quick peek at our kayaks, which still rested safely above the high tide line, and snuck back to the warmth of the tent.

When we awoke late the next morning the tide was half way out, and it seemed as if the scene which I remembered from the night had been a dream. It was a rare overcast morning, and the sea was uncommonly rough as we made our way north around the aptly named Foul Point. We beached for a few hours to wait for the weather to clear before making the more exposed passage around Abel Head which brought us to Awaroa Bay. Awaroa (a Maori word for "long valley") is named for the huge shallow tidal inlet which extends inland from here. At the mouth of the inlet is the only real blotch of development in the park. In addition to a regular hiker's hut there is a small cafe with guest rooms for rent.

We set out late that afternoon expecting an easy paddle to camp at picturesque Goat Bay, but the wind was not with us, and with much fighting and cursing we were able to slog our way to shore at Waiharakeke Bay, about a mile short of our original destination. We decided to make camp there. Just after unloading our equipment we returned to secure our boats for the night and found that the wind which had so frayed our tempers earlier had died completely leaving calm flat blue where we had fought through three feet of chop.

As the night grew chilly one of our neighbors built a blazing fire and we gladly huddled around it and shared stories of our paddling and hiking. The Abel Tasman attracts a wide range of people of all ages and nationalities. We shared a camp with several Kiwis, a chain smoking British woman who was paddling with two German men, and two Americans about our age.

Having reached the turnabout point of our trip, we started back to retrace our path at a more leisurely pace, taking time to explore the bays and islands that we had passed by on our paddle northward. Our first exploration the next morning was Awaroa Inlet just to the south of our campsite. Rounding the point at the mouth of the inlet our boats were caught in a strong tidal current which drew us in. Faced with the choice of paddle like mad or go with the flow we decided to explore. It was quite an amazing sensation being carried along so fast with almost no wind and no effort required. It was quite relaxing once we stopped worrying about how we were going to get back out. About a mile into the inlet we pulled up on a small beach to wait for the tide to reverse. Once it was going our way again we expected an easy paddle back out, except that by then a strong onshore sea breeze had come up, blowing us back as we inched our way out in the shelter of the shoreline. What had been a pleasant float past beautiful forested bluffs was now a murderous slog into a strong headwind. For a moment I wished I was hiking the coast on foot rather than paddling it, until I saw several backpackers who had misread their tide tables and were attempting to follow the trail across the tidal flat at high tide in waist deep water with heavy packs.

By the time we landed at Awaroa beach we were exhausted and discouraged. We rested for a few hours and were just discussing the possibility of taking the ferry back when we struck up a conversation with a retired couple from Christchurch who were walking by on the beach. We talked for some time about our travels as well as our favorite coves and islands.

Once the breeze died down and Michelle and I could face the idea of getting back in our boats, we looked forward to the late afternoon paddle, and when the old couple asked us to join them for the paddle around Abel Head we could not refuse. On our way around the huge rocky headland the old couple showed us a secret little corner called Shag Harbour. The entrance is not apparent from the open water, in fact we had passed it before without noticing the passage between the rocks. To get in at low tide you need to pick your path carefully through the large rocks which guard a small break in the rocky headland until you reach a magical little pool so protected that you can barely hear the waves outside. At high tide it is possible to paddle through a long slot in the rock, barely wider than a kayak, into a still more secret sanctum, although we contented ourselves with the knowledge that we had already reached a place that no power boater had ever seen. As we rounded the remaining headland and headed for the beach at Tonga Quarry the old woman who was paddling beside us gazed ahead at the turquoise water and beach turned orange in the dying sun. "So this is what they mean by magic," she said softly as if to herself. Only the innocence and the pure sincerity with which she said it kept me from chuckling, but I understood exactly what she meant.

On our way north we had passed by the leeward side of Tonga Island, but had judged the more exposed eastern side to be too rough to paddle. Being more confident in our abilities and more experienced with our boats we paddled out in the morning calm to further explore the far side. Tonga Island is a designated nature reserve and home to a year round colony of seals. On our first pass by the shaded side of the island we had only seen a few seals who stared at us from the rocks, looking as if they were badly hungover from the previous night's revels and wished to be left alone. However on the exposed side we discovered the center of the thriving colony.

As we approached a few braver young pups swam out to investigate, swimming and darting all around our kayaks. One surprised Michelle by sneaking up from behind and poking up his whiskered face just inches from her paddle. Paddling closer to the rocks we were greeted by more disapproving, hung-over looks from the older seals and a few bellows similar to a sound I once heard my college roommate make on the morning after an especially abusive revel. The younger seals playing in the water took little notice once they had checked us out. Some swam circles around us or came up and nudged the underside of our kayaks just to investigate, but we soon grew tiresome and they returned to their seal games.

It seems hard to believe, but seals splashing around in water which we would consider too cold to swim in are prone to overheating. To cool themselves they have the odd ability to divert much of their blood flow to one of their flippers which they hold up in the breeze to cool as they swim around. The effect is like seeing a dozen young seals all giving a simultaneous high five while swimming around in circles. By this time we were beginning to feel that we had outstayed our welcome, and watching our friends stuff their furry faces with fish was making us hungry, so we paddled back to the coast for lunch.

After a quick meal we paddled to Arch Point where we had heard there was a sea arch that you could paddle through. We arrived at mid-tide and found that you could paddle through the arch to a tiny secluded beach, masked by rocks on the other side, however someone had beat us to it and seemed determined to stay there hogging up the arch all day. No mind, there are several prominent sea arches and dozens of secret beaches along the coast.

Arriving back at Mosquito Bay at high tide we paddled right up to the campsite and finding it deserted we decided to stay. After unloading our boats we explored the tidal pool behind the sand bar on which we had made camp. The tidal pool extended for several hundred yards at a depth of only a few feet. Sheltered from the wind as it was the paddling was sublime. With a single stroke we glided silently for a hundred feet.

The tide was almost all the way out when the two Americans we had met earlier paddled up to our deserted bay. We helped them carry their boats above to the tide line and in return, or maybe just out of good spirit they told us about the sea cave they had discovered in the rocks just north of the bay. We followed their directions and found a two small entrances among the rocks which lead into a huge cathedral like cave. We had paddled past this coast line twice and had missed it both times.

The next morning we rose with the sun to make the most of our last day's paddle. We paddled for several hours in the glassy calm before the sea breeze came up. We stopped briefly at Observation Beach which is rather unremarkable except for its crowd of backpackers and a historical marker. We were within the range of day trippers out of Marahau and there were plenty of power boats around. We had planned to cross the Astrolabe Roadstead to visit the seal colony on Adele Island and a reported penguin colony on nearby Fisherman Island but the wind was rising in the passage and we had learned our lesson about paddling into the wind. When we returned to the landing at Marahau we found our friends the old couple we had paddled with were waiting for us. They invited us to come stay with them in Christchurch, but our plans took us in the opposite direction, so we traded a few more stories before we said good-bye.

In five days we had paddled most of the length of the park, but we had only explored a small fraction of its wonders. There are dozens of little coves, hidden beaches and sea caves that can only be spotted by a careful unhurried eye and a good deal of luck. With the natural beauty of the unfailingly blue sky, the white sand, the turquoise water and the lush green rain forest, the Abel Tasman National Park is every cliche of a tropical paradise come wonderfully to life. There are enough secrets and surprises to warrant many weeks or even a lifetime of exploration as our old friends had done. I guess this is what they mean by magic.

For information

According to the New Zealand Handbook (1987) by Jane King, you can write for information to Abel Tasman National Park HQ, located at 1 Commercial St., Takaka.

Mail should be sent to the Chief Ranger, Lands and Survey Dept., Box 53, Takaka, New Zealand.

See the update to this article from the Dec/Jan 1996 issue