It took just one word to send a wave of audible gasps and heads shaking at the Swan Canoe Club. Who would have thought the word "double" could invoke such a response? Undaunted, we recalled our pact over a few too many drinks at the Perth Cup to resurrect "Pamela". "Pamela", a squat, curvaceous double kayak (named after another well endowed babe) had been sitting neglected in a flowerbed, the result of an impulse buy three years ago. By March, after a little prompting fron both parties we decided to start "training". Keith, relegated to the back as Pam's snub nose couldn't accomodate his legs, took the steering with him leaving Glenda happy as Larry with the prospect of seeing where the beast was going. An hour later and a little disillusioned Pamela was returned to the flowerbed from which she came. After a few more paddles we signed up with the Colin Thorpe school for idiots, oops, novices, with the words "We'll see how you go" ringing in our ears. With some white water under our belts the accolades were flowing, "Gee, that old tub gets down there okay". Two swollen heads later we were introduced to Syd's which deflated those heads rapidly and sunk Pamela as well. Luckily, only a little plastic, er, fibreglass surgery was needed to recreate her nose. The long awaited weekend finally approached. The river was dropping rapidly and not having seen the Valley at less than 2.5 metres the uncovered rapids and rocks were definitely a concern. Race day and two different types of race preparation were definitely apparent. Keith's the "quiet stroll to the porta loo" method and Glenda's "where the hell is he, we should be on the water" method. Finally, waterborn, a quick paddle past Kenny and Hendey ensures our TV exposure. Approaching the start line the tension was mounting with Glenda paddling forwards and Keith backwards until our grid was called and thankfully we were off. After escorting the fragile Pamela around Northam Weir the demoralising onslaught of other doubles and surf skis overtaking us began - the downside of starting in a low grid. Keeping our chins up we chatted to all who left us in their wake, we were even humoured by the comment about doing the Avon in a bathtub. With the shallow water our bow wave was impressive and much appreciated by our fellow competitors - why couldn't we find someone to wash so easily? Unfortunately Pamela took to the shallows like a beached whale, whenever possible lodging herself on a sand bank and then waiting for her bow wave to catch up and give her a kick start. After walking Extract's, the ti-trees were a welcome sight. Ah, there's that forked tree, that house, or that cluster of pebbles - was it left or right at these landmarks? All prior routes forgotten we stuck to our motto, "Go with the flow" which was soon expanded to "Go with the flow and avoid surf skis at all cost." Well, it wasn't a brilliant run, but it was behind us, leaving us with our next challenge of surviving another night at the Avon Down Inn. Day Two and our nerves were no less nervous. We quickly came across the obligatory traffic jam in the ti-trees. Trying to hang back Glenda inadvertantly swings Pamela around 180 degrees, much to the derision of Keith and fellow paddlers. Our only course was to paddle across the river where fate led us to the beautiful sight of an open and empty channel. We popped out at Posselt's to an eerie silence - not a boat in sight or a cry to be heard. Successfully dodging the shambles a t Super Shoot we made our way apprehensively to Emu's. How do we get down at this level? Hugging the right to tackle the washing machine we almost eddied out but got down like the champions we were beginning to feel. The rest of the Valley was brilliant, even after discovering every rock at Hart's Rapid and reacquainting ourselves with our fateful rocks at the top of Syd's. Bell's to go then we were home. Not so quickly. Under the bridge we seemed to be stuck. In slow motion we shared a puzzled glance "Is this really happening?" as the big stopper sucked us in and spat us out. Egos dented, the crowd had their blood. Pamela finally came to grief upon some rocks, bottom up and full of water. Much struggling and some cursing later, she was eventually relieved of the 2000 L of wate that seemed to be in her. With shattered cockpits and a leaking bottom we limped down to Upper Swan for emergency repairs. Here we discovered the wonders of gaffa tape and a great support crew. The last mind numbing thirty kilometres is now painful history punctuated with rudder repairs and boat emptying. Finally, the finish line was in sight and along with it our mentor, Colin, sparking a late sprint. Slowly dawned the realisation that after months of training and many memorable times with other 'trainees' we had reached our goal, yes, that medal was around our necks, leaving us with the question " Is there life after the Avon?" And as for Pamela, also dubbed, by various fans, the Black Pig, the Tug Boat, the Tirpitz and the Avon Armchair, she retired quickly to her flowerbed. |
