There was no rain or snow, although the weather was icy. Somehow I convinced myself that we could make progress and paddle to warmer regions. What I clearly never considered was that the relative warmth of the Costa del Sol and Gibraltar was about 1,000km away while, if we were doing well, we could cover little more than 50km a day.

When we entered the Mediterranean, after passing, without stopping, through the 2,500 years of history that is the ancient town of Agde, the sky was cloudless, the day almost windless. We turned east, toward Spain and, after some 25km across the bay, with an offshore wind picking up headed north for a long stretch of beach we could see: Narbonne Plage.

Once again, it was like landing at a film set. Only this was a modern post-apocalyptic scene: there was no sign of life along the massive expanse of sand, nor any on the roadway that ran along the beachfront behind a low, stone wall; not even a bird to be seen or heard. And the windows of all the double-storied houses along the seafront were shuttered.

So we set up our tent beside the roadside wall, the pegs and guy ropes weighed down with rocks and with the kayak alongside. “This will soon blow over,” I assured Barbara. But all that blew over was the tent. In the early hours of the morning, as we tried to untangle ourselves and stop the tent from being blown away, we got an inkling of what we were facing. The Mistral, as we were to discover, can reach speeds of up to 185km/h and has prompted innumerable fantastic tales about vehicles and people being blown to oblivion.

I finally conceded Barbara’s point: it would be sensible to leave the kayak, move south for winter and return later in the year to paddle on. The solution presented itself or, rather, himself, on a Sunday, after days of being battered by the Mistral: André was a caretaker to various of the Narbonne Plage holiday homes and he checked on them every Sunday. He also had keys to a garage where we could house Amandla and the bulk of our belongings.

Narbonne Plage. (Photo: Filckr)

And so we headed south, to Gibraltar and Tangier to meet with what, with hindsight, can only be described as a kaleidoscopic array of experiences and characters. This would have been much more enjoyable, but for the fact that word had emerged in Gibraltar about our paddling venture: local TV flighted an item stating that we might soon be paddling toward the “Rock”. This proved a goad to me: we could not waste any more time.

Against Barbara’s advice to “wait for summer,” I argued that early spring would be best. And so we arrived back at Narbonne Plage during the first week of April, 1968. André was good as his word: on the Sunday, we wheeled out the kayak and the launch into the light surf went smoothly. Then, as we paddled out into the bay, I made perhaps my biggest mistake.

We were taking a break from paddling and, in the rear cockpit, I was sorting out some of the gear. I had put the compass on the decking in front of me when an unexpected swell struck, just as I brought out the travelling alarm clock we carried. The compass slid and I reached for it, dropping the clock. Both fell overboard. I told Barbara the clock had gone, but decided not to mention the compass: “Oh, we don’t need the clock,” she said.

The next few days were enjoyable, including the crossing into Spain. Those were also the days before the wild coast (Costa Brava) was visually polluted by the accommodation clutter of package holiday tourism. It was magnificent. We relaxed, even rounding the widely feared Cap de Creus in fine style, passing by Salvador Dali’s villa and on to the then sleepy town of Cadaques. Ahead lay the Bay of Rosas — and the consequences of my losing the compass.

The day dawned quite still and sunny, and, although there was a quite heavy swell running, it was great for paddling. Instead of taking time, following the curve of the bay, I suggested that we “cut straight across” the 20km or so to L’Estartit.

We were less than halfway across the bay when the fog started rolling in. Soon we faced a “white out” where all visibility is lost. I realised we were in trouble. Barbara did not: “Get out the compass,” she said. There could never have been a more inappropriate time to mention that I had lost it overboard. Barbara froze as I told her to secure her lifejacket and “take out the passports and money and put them in your bra”.

She never said another word — neither did I — as I fought to keep the stern to the swells, gambling that if we ran with them we would eventually end up in Spain and not in the middle of the Mediterranean. I was right and we ran ashore deep in the Bay of Rosas. Barbara was not impressed. She leapt ashore and found her voice, raging, in unprintable terms, about me, my seamanship and general incompetence.

It took another day, along with a guarantee that we would never stray more than 1km from shore before she relented. Then the weather changed. We lost two more days as stormy seas lashed the coastline before we were finally able to get away to try to cover the less than 20km to the sanctuary of the Arenys de Mar harbour.

Cadaques. (Photo:Flickr)

Less than 5km from the harbour entrance, the wind picked up and Barbara complained about being constantly drenched by the choppy seas. Several small catamarans were setting off from a beach and bouncing along the waves before sliding back on to the beach. “Let’s land there,” said Barbara, but I decided to press on. Bad mistake. An hour later we were making little headway and the sea was getting rougher. I turned the stern into the waves and started to surf toward the shore.

Neither of us remembers who saw them first, but we both yelled: “Rocks!” I managed to steer to the right, missing a large rocky outcrop, but ploughed into a metre-high wall of sand. Barbara threw her paddle ashore and scrambled out with me shouting for her to “grab the painter” and help pull the kayak up. But she stood on the wall of sand, water dripping off her and shouted back: “f*** off”. As she turned around and marched away another wave struck, half filling the kayak.

With the help of three Spanish men who had been fishing from the rocks, I finally got Amandla ashore, laid out everything that needed drying and pitched the tent. So began many hours of debate and pleadings as Barbara held to her ultimatum: me or the kayak. And so Amandla was sold for the price of two train tickets and it was Barbara’s turn to voice an overly optimistic assessment: “We’ll just travel down overland to Dar.”

We did eventually get there — 13 years later. DM