Vrystaat Confessions

Tag: tugela river

Messing about in Boats

‘There is nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.‘ Kenneth Grahame Wind in the Willows

Random thoughts on various boats I’ve enjoyed in my largely landlubber life.

Motorboating

The first thing I knew about boats was they took up the whole lounge and nothing else could happen in there. The old man built a wooden-hull motorboat in our lounge on the plot outside Harrismith ca.1959. There was a lot more room to move about in that lounge when we visited it about half a century later, ca.2007:

As far as I recall Dad used the boat just a few times on the Wilge River (‘The Mighty Vulgar’) at Sunnymede.

Then he sold it and bought a bigger boat. It had a 50hp Mercury outboard. He soon sold that one to local farmer Harry Mandy for delivery to Richards Bay, where the Mandys were going to use it for fishing. I went with Dad towing it behind our 1956 Morris Isis to Richards Bay, my first visit to ‘Zululand’ ca.1965. Someone else – Jimmy Horsley? – went along for the ride. The two adults sat in front, smoked cigarettes and talked, ignoring me. I could happily daydream and stare out the window. Maybe I “looked out the window and dreamed I was a cowboy” – ala John Denver?

At a re-fuelling stop, I stood on the forecourt after we had refuelled the Isis. Always in a hurry, the old man said impatiently, ‘Come on! Hop in!’ and I said, ‘But the boat isn’t hitched up,’ It had been unhitched so the numberplate could be dropped to get at the filler cap under it. They had to quickly hook up the trailer before we could go! I felt very important. Like, needed, almost.

I remember crossing an impressive high-arched bridge – probably this one across the Umhlatuze.

– pic: Hugh Bland kznpr.co.za –

In the village of Richards Bay we stayed in a motel-type hotel; rustic, but still luxury – or at least novelty – to me.

~~oo0oo~~

Sunnymede on the Wilge River, waterskiing behind Richard Scott’s boat.

Tabs’ Balmoral dam. Tabs Fyvie’s first boat we fetched in Howick – On the way home a wheel came past us and we chuckled at the misfortune of ‘whoever’s it was!’ It was ours!

When Tabs finally got the little boat to Sarclet a week or two later, we battled to start the old Johnson outboard motor. We all took turns pulling and plukking the cord. EVENTUALLY it started, so we all jumped aboard the tiny boat – and promptly sank it! Drowned the motor! Three hours of schlep and zero minutes of skiing!

Later Tabs got a bigger boat, ‘The Pheasant Plucker’ with a V6 inboard motor and a Hamilton jet. I once embarrassingly beached it when the motor cut at speed as I slammed it into reverse, aiming for a windgat sudden stop; I landed up high and dry next to the cars parked on the bank;

Back in 1958, Drove an old V8 . . .

Canoeing

The old weir on the Wilge river – shooting the old sandstone weir on tubes and our mostly-open red-and-blue canoe. We didn’t realise then how dangerous weirs are!

Pierre du Plessis and I paddled from town to Swiss Valley in our open red-and-blue canoe on my 15th birthday.

Swinburne to Harrismith down the Wilge River:

– Once with Fluffy Crawley – very low level in that same open red-and-blue canoe.

– Once with Claudio Bellato – river at a high level – we both lost our spectacles – in an Accord K2 owned by the Voortrekkers, white fibreglass with green vinyl deck. We proceeded to wreck it in Island Rapid on Mrs Girly and the Misses – Bessie and Marie – Jacobs’ farm Walton. Had to pay for it. R50!

ca.1969, Charles Ryder arrived in Harrismith in a lime-green Volvo 122S. On his roofrack he had a fibreglass Limfjorden 17’6″, glass cockpit, white vinyl deck, clear hull, wooden struts, crossbars and gunwales, brass handles.

I wrapped (‘wrecked’) it on the Wilge – also on the Jacobs’ farm Walton. There’s an island and the river descends in rapids on both sides of it.

I then completely rebuilt that boat. Learnt a lot about kayak construction. Also that I don’t like fiberglass. Not at all.

Trained for the ’72 Dusi on the mighty Wilge River. Then the boat disappeared! So I hitchhiked to PMB to follow the Dusi. Later I found the boat submerged in the Kakspruit and reclaimed it.

One day I saw the late zoo warthog Justin floating downstream, bloated and feet-in-the-air after the zoo closed down and he’d been turned loose.

Before I knew the danger of creeks in flood, I took a short trip under the bridge on HS-Swinburne road N3, on the Swartspruit to test the Limfy (and me!) as it was running high – Mom took me in her car, trusting soul.

USA

1973 – Lake of the Woods near Quetico National Park, Ontario Canada in open ‘Canadian’ canoes. With Oklahomans Sherry Higgs, Dottie Moffett, Dale Moffett and Jonathan Kneebone from Aussie. The no-see-ems (black flies) and mozzies drove us out after just one night!

Canoe Marathons

Dusi 1972 – My Limfy stolen in Harrismith, so no boat! Hitched to PMB with Jean Roux. Hitched a ride with someone’s second to 1st overnight stop at Dusi bridge; Hitched on to Diptank 2nd overnight stop; Slept in the open under the stars; On to Blue lagoon; Slept on the beach near Addington, then at Point Road police station (an eye- and ear-opener!).

Dusi 1976 – Drove down with Louis van Reenen in his blue VW Beetle. I had a white Limfy with a vinyl deck, he had a red all-glass Hai whitewater boat (small cockpit, rudderless) from Jerome Truran’s Dad in JHB! We tossed a coin and he won, so I seconded him driving his VW. We stayed in my orange puptent. It was a very high river – he swam and swam! But he finished, tough character that he was!

Dusi 1983 – at last I paddled the Dusi! New white hulled Limfy with a red fibreglass deck. At the start I spied Louis, starting his second Dusi.

Umko 1983 – Hella Hella to Goodenough’s weir in my Limfy.

Berg 1983 in a Sabre – after (luckily!) training in ‘Toti with Chris Logan. Cold as hell! Freezing! Gail-force winds! Horizontal rain! Madness.

Fish 1983 – ( from the Fish website): In those days, the race was held on a much lower river (roughly half of the current level!) and it started with a very long first day (over 50km). The paddlers left the Grassridge Dam wall and paddled back around the island on the dam (the WORST part of the race for my hangover!!) before hitting the river, eventually finishing at the Baroda weir, 2,5 km below the current overnight stop. The paddlers all camped at Baroda overnight, before racing the shorter (33km) second stage into Cradock. “In those days the paddlers had to lift the fences, and the river mats (fences weighed down by reeds and flotsam and jetsam) took out quite a few paddlers”, said Stanford Slabbert (winner of the first Fish in 1982). “Getting under (or over) them was quite an art. I recall one double crew, the front paddler bent forward to get under the fence and flicked the fence hoping to get it over his partners head as well. It didn’t. The fence caught his hair and pulled him right out of the boat and they swam!”

Legends were already being born. Herve de Rauville stunned the spectators by pioneering a way to shoot Marlow weir. He managed to reverse his boat into the chute on the extreme left, and took the massive slide back into the river going forward, and made it!

The field doubled in 1983, as the word of this great race spread. 145 paddlers in 110 boats. It was won on debut by Joburg paddler Niels Verkerk, who recalls, “It was a very long first day, especially as the river was not as full as it is now (it was running at 17 cumecs in 1983). Less than half the guys shot Keiths Flyover, which was not that bad as the hole at the bottom wasn’t that big. Very few people shot Cradock weir in those days. I won the race without shooting Cradock”, he added.

At a medium level, the lines at Soutpansdrift were also different. The weir above Soutpans was always a problem, as there was no chute, and even the pipes that created a slide down the weir face were not there yet. At the bottom of the rapid, the only line was extreme left, underneath the willow tree, and then a sharp turn at the bottom to avoid hitting the rocks, where the spectators gathered in numbers hoping to see you come short.

Crocodile 1984 (lowveld croc) marathon to Nelspruit. Back in the days when the race finished in Nelspruit and you had to portage the Montrose Falls. Scouts would check ahead on the second day to see where the hippos were. Sometimes you had to portage round their pool. Other times it was deemed OK to paddle past them. Our year they were in Nelspruit, so the race was ended just above their pool in the river. I loved that river and was disappointed to dip out on those last couple of kays. Short-changed by the river horses!

Tripping

Umko, Tugela, Umzimkulu, Orange, Vaal, Ocoee River in Tennessee 1984, Colorado river in Arizona 1984

—————————————————–

Other boats – I got a Sella – white deck, clear hull new from Rick Whitton at Kayak Centre.

Later I bought a second hand Jaguar (I think) at the KCC club auction. Red deck.

Now I have plastics – my old Perception Quest Greg Bennett imported for his Paddlers Paradise venture, and sold to us at a generous discount; a Fluid Flirt, an Epic something – a bit bigger – and a Fluid Detox bought from Owen Hemingway. Gathering dust.

In 2020 I gave the Flirt and the Epic to Rob Hill, who does great work teaching kids to handle swift water, and vital sweeping, and plus river rescue.

Later: Also donated the Fluid Detox plus paddling kit to Rob.

Wilge Swinburne – Harrismith

Wilge Harrismith to Swiss Valley (Near Nieuwejaarspruit confluence)

Vaal near Parys

Orange above Augrabies falls

In 1983 or 84 I bought a Perception Quest plastic from Greg Bennett at Paddlers Paradise – in the first batch he imported – for R525.

Tugela – Colenso to Tugela Ferry;

Tugela – Ngubevu to Jamieson’s – with Doug Retief, Dave Walker, Bernie Garcin

Umko – Mpendle – Lundys Hill

Umko – Lundys Hill – Deepdale

Umko – Deepdale – Hella Hella

Umko – Hella Hella – No. 8

Umko marathon – Hella Hella to Goodenoughs Weir

Umzimkulu Hatchery to Coleford bridge

Lake St Lucia – Dukandlovu – Robbie Stewart, Bernie Garcin, and –?

Ocoee river in Tennessee – rented Perception Mirage

Grand Canyon Colorado – rented Quest-like plastic

Colorado river in Arizona (480km through the Grand Canyon). Got two wonderful wooden paddles made in Canada: Hollow oval shaft at right angles, laminated blade kevlar-clad and teflon-tipped. Left feather, of course. Beaut! Still got one, gave Greg Bennett the other.

Vaal near Parys

Orange above Augrabies with Aitch with some local outfitter recommended by Dave Walker.

Trip: We paddled in the Umfula’s store area for the last time before the Inanda dam flooded the Umgeni valley. I borrowed extra boats for non-paddling friends, but we ended up walking it was so low!

Botswana – in borrowed plastic expedition sit-in kayaks, we paddled the Thamalekane river – outside Maun, Botswana; and the Nhabe river in flood – Aitch, Janet, Duncan and I paddled the last 5 to 8 km into Lake Ngami and then back upstream to our vehicle.

Never kayak’d the Zambesi. Rafted a one-day trip below the Falls.

~~oo0oo~~

post needs editing. One day . . .

8 Dec 2023
The Bend – Earlier Daze

Before we learnt to drink beer on the banks of the mighty Tugela, we drank oros and water while observing our elders drinking beer on those same rocks on the same bend in the river that gives the farm its name. Here’s an 8mm ‘cine’ movie taken back in the early 1960’s – before we followed suit in the seventies.

These were the days when Thankful and Grateful – as that incorrigible axis of mirth Sheila-Bess-Georgie-Lettuce called Frank and Gretel Reitz – would have large soirees on the farm with the Swanies, the Kemps and others gathering ‘in their numbers.’

In the movie Gretel, Joyce, Mary and Isabel walk along that stunning driveway lined with (amIright here?) Grecian (Roman?) columns to the old double-rondawel thatched homestead. Then the drinking party moves down to the river where Gee and Kai pilot the motorboat and Barbara and Bess paddle in the shallows. Check out Doc Reitz’s old Chev OHS 71.

–oo0oo–

25 Jan 2019
Tugela Gorgeous Boats n Boobs
Bumbling down from Ngubevu through the legendary Tugela Gorge. Here’s Bernie Garcin (Bernie and the Jets), Doug Retief (Doug the Thief), Dave Walker (Lang Dawid) and me, preparing to spend the night at Fig Tree Sandbank campsite, one of the planet’s most beautiful spots.

Four plastic Perception kayaks – Dancer, Mirage and Quest. We tripped in 1984 and 1985. In those early days old-timers would still mock plastic boats, saying ‘tupperware keeps turkeys fresh,’ but we knew the joy of not having to nurse the boats, nor having to schlep fibreglass patch kits along, and just smiled! You can do more in plastic!

– the bog roll got damp and needed drying –

At the time Greg Bennett was sponsoring and competing in a motorised rubber duck race down the Tugela. Sacrilege! In ’84 he had Jerome Truran as crew, in ’85 Rip Kirby was his sidekick and pilot. Greg knew how to pick his rapid-readers while he ‘put foot’ in the back of the boat. We used Greg’s bakkie to get to Ngubevu. Then someone must have fetched us at Jamieson’s Bridge at the end.

On one of the trips bare-breasted maidens flashed us! We saw a Landrover parked on a hill on the left bank, then saw some swimmers in the river. As they spotted us they ducked down, but then as we passed two of the girls popped up their lily-white tits to huge approval. They were like this except the water was brown and there were no cozzies and the parts hidden by this cozzie were lily-white – except for the central little bump, which was beautifully darker, and perky. Not that we stared.

The current swept us past them, but the mammaries lingered on.

Four-man Hole was soon after that and I crowded into a Bernie-occupied eddy straight after the drop and punched the nose of my Quest into his ribs. Being Bernie he didn’t wince, but I knew it had hurt.

Overnight at the crowded duck race camp the sponsors Lion Lager thought we were competitors, so their beautiful beer hostesses liberally plied us with ale. OK, lager. It was exactly like I imagine heaven is going to be: You walked up to the beer can-shaped trailer, said to the gorgeous lady ‘One Case Please’ and she plonked a tray of 24 cans on the counter, opened every tab pfft pfft pfft pfft – all 24 – and off you went. Stagger back to where you were pontificating.

When they ran out of beer, I rummaged cleverly in the boats and found wine papsaks we used for flotation and squeezed out the dregs. Karen the gorgeous, voluptuous newspaper reporter – remember the days when they wrote stuff on paper? – was covering the event for The Natal Mercury or The Natal Witness or some-such. Went under the byline Karen Bliksem if I remember correctly. She held out her mug and as I dispensed I gave her the patter: “A good wine. Not a great wine, but a good wine, with a delicate bouquet.” She shook her mug impatiently and said endearingly, “I know fuckall about flowers, I’m in it for the alcohol,” and I fell deeply in love. Again. My kinda dreamboat lady in shape and attitude. She was like . . .

Dave too, was smitten as one of the comely lager hostesses joined him in his laager and treated him to sincere sleeping bag hospitality above and beyond the call of duty, ending the session with a farewell flash of delightful décolletage as she kissed him goodbye in the morning. She was like . . .

or like . . .

As we drifted downstream Lang Dawid led the singing. We sang:
```
The landlord had a daughter fair – parlez vous 
The landlord had a daughter fair – parlez vous 
The landlord had a daughter fair 
Lily-white tits and golden hair 
Inky Pinky parlez vous
```
~~~oo0oo~~~
```
We sang to the resident goats: 
I ain’t afraid of no goats 
That was Doug the Thief's chirp.
```
~~~oo0oo~~~
```
We sang - to the tune of He Aint Heavy . . . : 
Hy’s nie swaar nie . . . 
hy’s my swa-a-a-er 
Walker again.
```
~~~oo0oo~~~

Ah! Those were carefree daze!

~~~oo0oo~~~

Hy’s nie swaar nie, hy’s my swaer – He aint heavy, he’s my brother-in-law
6 Jun 2018
A Fine Spectacle

This story will be fuzzy in parts because of the long passage of time. But although some details may be slightly different, ‘strue. So I must tell the tale before those last few grey cells that hold the memory get blitzed by the box wine.

It was on the Berg River Canoe Marathon that Christof Heyns came to tell me was pulling out of the race. Why!? I asked, dismayed. He’d fallen out in the frigid flooded Berg river and lost his glasses. Couldn’t see past his nose, so it was way too dangerous to carry on in the mid-winter Cape cold and the flooding brown water in the gale-force wind that was the 1983 second day.

Hell, no, I said, I’ve got a spare pair, you can use mine.

He rolled his eyes and smiled sadly at my ignorance. His eyes were very special, his glasses were very thick and there was no way just any ‘arb’ specs would do, he mansplained patiently. In his defence, he didn’t know I was an optometrist, that I was wearing contact lenses, that I had a spare pair of specs in my luggage and another tied to the rudder cable in my boat; nor could he know that I had a very good idea of what his prescription was from seeing his glasses on his nose both on this race and on a Tugela trip we had been on together earlier. I knew about his eyes better than he knew about my soul (he might have known a bit about that, as his Dad was a very belangrike dominee in the Much Deformed Church – top dog, in fact).

So I said, trust me swaer and went and fetched my spares. He put them on and was amazed. I can see! he shouted like I was Jesus who had just restored his sight. I know, I said.

So he wore the glasses and finished the race and I said keep them till we next meet.

Many months later I saw an article in the SA Canews, the paddling magazine, titled: “My Broer se Bril”. Christof wrote the story of how he had lost hope when some arb oke said “Here, try mine” and he could see! And he could finish the race.

He ended off by saying “Actually they were so good I’m wearing them to this day”. Ja, you bugger, I know, I thought. I could have written an article “How a dominee’s son appropriated my bril,” but I didn’t. I’m way too kind! In his defence, we haven’t seen each other since that race.

. . and today – April 2021 – I heard he died, aged only 62. Damn!

~~~oo0oo~~~

belangrike dominee – important churchman; flock leader; the lord is my shepherd, I am a sheep;

swaer – bro;

my broer se bril – my brother’s spectacles;

mansplain – when a man laboriously, carefully and ‘kindly’ explains something to you that you already know; usually inflicted on women;

20 Jul 2017
Geronim-Oh-No!!

When modern man decided to pinch water from the Tugela river and pump it uphill to satisfy the Vaalies’ thirst, our area around Harrismith and Bergville saw a flurry of activity and an influx of new people. A bus arrived at school and a flock of new kids tumbled out. They were cruelly christened Die Dam Paddas by us parochials.

New things started appearing in the distrik: Sterkfontein dam; TuVa township (Tu Va – Tugela/Vaalies, geddit?); a vertical tunnel in the Drakensberg for the hydro-electric turbines; canals and smaller dams. All had to be built.

One of the latter was Driel Barrage on the Tugela river on Kai Reitz’s farm The Bend, so once we’d had sufficient beer one fine day we drove down on the back of Kai’s big Chevy pickup to look at the construction and to say some insightful engineering things about it.

A very high wall had been built starting out from dry land until its highest point in the middle of the river. Very interesting, but we don’t have to . . . . Oh, we do?

So we climbed up it and inched our way on our bums along the 30cm wide wall to its highest point. Some walked, but they were just being foolish, right? OK, so we’ve seen it, can we go now?

The muddy brown water way below us was completely opaque, no way you could see even one centimetre into it. It could have been knee deep or ten metres deep, who knows, so we definitely won’t be . . . . Mandy! ARE YOU MA-AA-aa-aD?!

She’s jumped! Holy shee-yit!! Ah neely dahd, she took forever to plummet as I watched in slow motion, and then she entered with a big splash and disappeared, which I s’pose was better than if she hadn’t.

Eventually she surfaced with a huge grin on her face and now I knew I was stuffed. I’d have to jump. Unless the others chickened out, but no, there went Sheila and so before long I had to stand up, act casual and plummet meself.

Unbelievable what a fierce hold brave women have over us cowardly um, circumspect men . . .

– red: the walk of fear – yellow: the plummet of death –

~~~oo0oo~~~

6 Feb 2014