Paddling is such sweet sorrow
As Paul Ash parts with his beloved kayak, at least its new home is lovely
O H, how jealous I am of people who live in places like this. Every stroke of the paddle turns up something delightful — a darting malachite kingfisher, the trill of a Knysna loerie from the deep, green forest pressing from both banks, or the ripples of our passage in the tea-coloured water.
We have been on the Touw River for less than an hour and already I think it is one of the best paddles I have ever done.
I am saying goodbye to my beloved Folbot folding kayak, taking one last paddle in it before handing it over to its grinning new owners, one of whom, Sylvee, is paddling from the stern seat.
Sploshing along behind us in a rented Canadian canoe is photographer Peter Ribton, who, delighted at being the Folbot’s other new owner, can barely contain his excitement at how good the red boat looks with the dark water and the green forest pressing in overhead …
The moment is bittersweet. I bought the Folbot 10 years ago, shortly before my father died — indeed, I remember, like yesterday, him leaning over the balcony of the Hermanus house as he watched the aluminium struts and ribs snap together to form a shining skeleton, which we then slid into the rubber and nylon hull. “Impressive engineering,” he said with an approving engineer’s eye. “Don’t let it be a nine-day wonder, now.”
Months later, as he lay in hospital, I consoled myself with a daydream of being on a beach on Lake Malawi, assembling the kayak before pushing off onto the dark waters of the lake. “It will all be alright,” I said. And hoped … Every time after that, putting the boat together was a chance to slow down and remember my old man.
So it is, on this last paddle in the Folbot, that he is here on the river, hearing the droplets from our paddles and the loeries calling and the rush of water under the hull as the Folbot surges up the creek.
And a creek it is. The Touw is shallow at the best of times but as we drift under the iron bridge at Ebb and Flow, I can see the sandy riverbed inches below us. Peter says the mouth is probably open.
We paddle on, one eye on the trees, the other on the water,
looking out for the shallows. Don’t want to go aground and damage the boat, not today.
We have left it late in the day for a paddle. The river carves a passage through high hills, which make for an early sunset and the forest begins to haunt us in the gathering dusk.
But it is a breathless evening and the water is calm. There is no one else on the river and moving as silently as we do, we see half a dozen malachite kingfishers before they see us. The loeries are more elusive, calling from the trees but staying out of sight. Their calls keep pace with us as we paddle slowly upstream.
I am reminded that a kayak can take you with grace and silence into the heart of a wilderness. It is, simply, one of the nicest ways to travel.
You can’t go too far on the Touw, maybe 40 minutes around the
Impressive engineering … Don’t let it be a nine-day wonder, now
bends before the water gets too shallow and you go aground on the sandy bottom. From here, a boardwalk leads on through the forest, taking you to a waterfall and what Tom Sawyer would have called a swimmin’ hole.
Night is coming on like a train and there is no time to see the waterfall. The forest is black and mysterious now and we can barely see the rocks and the sandbanks. I can smell the last of the day’s heat rising off the leaves, the dank, earthy air and sweet mud.
“You are lucky to live here,” I say to Sylvee as we paddle back to the iron bridge.
“The boat will have a good home,” she says.
Night has come and we speed back downriver in the dark. Dad, an Imperial College oarsman, a romantic and a man who saw beauty in rivers and working boats, would have loved it.