i was watching this programme last night of some nutcase that tried to solo kayak accross the tasman. he died 30 miles off the coast of nz. so he almost made it. the design of his equipment was fatally flawed imo.

any it got me thinking about kiting it.

not me i'm not that crazy. the man that came to mind was yaker.

Man of crazy long distances.... this would be like ultimate.

of course it would require huge expense, support boats etc..

No desire to even consider the Tasman, I get sea sick. Not sure why anyone thinks it is a good idea on a kite. I am actually quite sane but have a hard time convincing people of this at the moment.
Yes crossing the Tasman is hard out and wish I had seen that programme. Just read the account of the 2 guys who were successful across the Tasman. Completely different approach to the whole thing but is still sounded like an exercise in misery. I highly recommend reading the book though as it is a good read and they do make numerous comments about the guy that died. Some would say he was unlucky to die that close others have pointed out he was lucky to make it that far..
www.crossingtheditch.com.au/

hehe your into distance kite surfing and you get sea sick.... i get sea sick too so i would be similarily screwed.

the guy that died could not eskimo role because of the design of his buble that he placed over the hatch to sleep in. if your sea kayaking and you cant eskimo role its madness. it took me about 10 mins to figure a design change so he could have eskimo rolled...bad design and obviously bad risk assesment.

ps i realize your quite sane. its just yourve built up your level of what you deem acceptable well beyond that of the average kitesurfer.

Yeah risk is all relative really and I guess everyone has to make their mind up at some point what risk is acceptable to them. (see story bellow from a friend who has just returned from Congo- he lived by the way)

My approach to risk really comes from a whitewater backgrounnd, so long as it doesn't kill you, permanently mame you or put other people at risk, then I am comfortable with it. A bit of hardship/challenge is part of the game in adventure is the goal.

The approach taken by the kayaker that died was deliberately at odds with the approach taken by the 2 successful guys. I wonder if the 2 successful guys had not been planning to do the trip that he would have made different choices and ultimately lived.

www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=198116345...777932489&ref=nf

Below is from research I did before going to the Congo. followed by my own experience
….
"The Congolese have grown wary of outsiders -- they have plenty of reasons to distrust Western intruders, or the mondelé. At least one region along the Congo River -- Ile Sumba -- has been dubbed the abattoir, or slaughterhouse. Cannibals from the Engombe tribe live nearby and have been known to abduct and kill explorers.( In 1989, two Belgians were hacked to death and eaten by the Engombe tribe in a stretch of river near Ile Sumba)

….
"They wanted to rob us," Desi said. "When they saw the gun, they apologized, offering the fish to make amends. They warned me we are now in Engombe land, that they, Engombes, are vicious and matata robbers, and proud of it. They told us to avoid showing ourselves to the villages ahead. No one enters Engombe land who is not an Engombe. We will have problems." "Ah, you and the mondele have a gun!" one shouted to us in French. "You win! We would have robbed and killed you both!" They dropped back, laughing, and returned to their cove.
To pass through the abattoir we would have to hire a soldier for protection in Lisala, the town a day away. C'est difficile, from Lisala to Mbandaka," a Zairian colonel told me. Engombes had killed and eaten both foreigners and Zairians alike there, he said. In the past, Engombe tribesmen would sneak up on barges and, using gaffs, drag people sleeping on deck into the water, drown them, then paddle away into the blackness with their mangled human booty, to be smoked and consumed later. www.salon.com/wlust/feature/1997/11/cov_10congo2.html


I knew this would be a sensative area.The only way through was by hiring some guys with guns to protect me or to go on a river barge. I took the latter option. The barge itself is a floating town of sorts and was one of the best parts of my trip, the following happend not long after entering Engombe land

....
Before sliding into the darkness, Mama Grace touches my arm. Looking me in the eye to be sure I am listening” Be careful and don’t go far, this is Engombe’s place”. Neither the gesture nor the warning is needed. She is far to large a lady to ignore and it’s not the first warning she has given me. I have seen the same resigned look in my mothers eyes, both no doubt thinking I should be on a leash. I am not oblivious to the situation, so I stay close and careful. For a while anyway.
My excuse for leaving the barge at night is a valid one. In 2 weeks I will paddle the largest volume rapids in the world. Somehow I have to keep at least some of the fragile fitness I have worked so hard over the past 3 weeks to build up. That and it’s really nice to be alone for a few hours. I have been on this floating slum for over a week now, its crowded and noisy.
Up and down the length of the barge I paddle. Always leaving myself a downstream escape, if it should be needed. Every lap going just a bit further upstream, it’s a reflex action.
I have a clear picture of how it will go wrong. A fishing canoe will come up and check me out. The mood will grow hostile as they realize I am helpless. All I have to do is make sure no canoe comes near. If I even see one silhouetted on the darkness spread smoothly over the river, I am straight back to the safety of the barge.
Its been almost 2 hours, time to go back. Just one more lap. Reluctant to leave the peaceful night, I go perhaps further than I should. I just want to see what lies behind that island and then I am coming straight back. There is no one out here.
Under a big moon the world reflex silver. Fresh, clear and exquisitely quiet. Sounds travels well, filling in the gap that color has left.
I have already turned back when I hear it. The war cry is punctuates by a much softer sounds. More threatening that the enraged screams. It is the sounds of air being sucked into a vacuum. It’s the sounds of paddles digging into water and more importantly it’s the sound of speed.
They have timed there ambush to perfection. Hiding in the shadows of the trees. Braking the cover of its solid blackness at precisely the right moment. 5 or 6 pirogues. 4 men to each. Screaming angrily and charging at a angle that will cut me of from the barge and from hope. In perfect unison the men bend double, throwing their body weight onto long thick paddles. The distance between us is closing fast. A creek boat and a war canoe, is a race that will only have one winner. There is no chance I will out run them, so I go straight at them. Hoping the show of confidence will calm them somewhat. It has the opposite effect. They go ballistic as I switch my angle at the last moment, aiming straight for the middle of their small fleet. The unexpectedness of it does allow me to break the line. It’s a tiny victory soured by the speed of their recovery. Instead of turning the 7m pirogues they simple spin on their heals and are racing after me again. I can see the barge in the distance. A single silent point of light, impossible far from the darkness I find myself in. I will not make it, but every meter closer increases the chance they might hear me. I have been screaming for a while. Roaring at my attackers and into the distance. Hoping that the singing of the evening church service on the barge is finished. Hoping that my people will hear me. It’s not a great plan but it’s the only one I have.
Another quick turn buys me a few more meters but less than I hoped. The situation is worsening. The men in the canoes are using their paddles as clubs, swinging wildly. One gets close enough to hits the back of the kayak, the plastic muffling a brutal blow that would have cracked bone.
The fleet is closing around me. They have worked out my technique and with superior speed and maneuverability it will not be long now. The spotlight of the barge and the light at the end of the tunnel is still impossible far. I am moving in a dream, the one were I can’t run fast enough. The frenzy on the pirogues grow with every missed attempt to grab me. They are hysterical, in a murderous rage and I am shit out of luck.
Somehow I keep them off me for a precious 200m but its becoming clear one of those swinging clubs is going to connect. I beat the line one more time. The closest canoe, now only 2 m away, throws a rope over me. The second it takes to get my paddle from under it, is all they need.
My hands go up, my running is done.
“ KIMJA’ “Kimja” Calm, calm, everybody be calm. They speak Lingala here but Swahili is all I got. The fact that I speak a African language gives me the second of hesitation I need. A toe hold in a rock slide perhaps but you take what you can get.
By pure chance “Kimja” is one of the words that translate in Lingala. There might be more overlapping words, I just have to find them. It is of the utmost importance I project calm. Like aggression it is airborne. I ignore the sound of the heavy blows falling around me. Maintaining eye contact with the guy holding me, I have to make a connection with him and I need to do so quickly. A heavy staffs churns the air before splitting the water. Another, this time crashing into my kayak. The cluster of boats are all coming together. Jockeying for a better position from which to swing their paddles at me. The guy holding me seems to have started thinking. I keep repeating it, calm, calm. Steady voice, bringing my hands down slowly, saying the word ever slower, trying to project it with every single cell in my body.
After every 3de calm, I try other happy words in Swahili. Friend! They seem to recognize. The guy holding me raises his hand for the happy slugger behind me to stop swinging his paddle. It’s a welcome intervention and a relief that lasts for about a second. He starts roping my kayaks onto his boat. I have never been tied up before and I don’t like the feeling one bit. I watch his hands and I hear the soulless grating of the nylon rope against the metal of the grab loop on my kayak. I want him to stop badly. There is nothing I can do but something needs to be done . It’s a conundrum, any resistance now can set the whole freak show of again. If I do nothing, I end up in the village and that’s a trip I don’t think I will be coming back from. It’s the worst moment of the whole incident so far. The chase is over and the hysteria slightly dulled but the night is still nervous. Boats banging and people screaming, the undeniable knowledge that I am caught by some very bad people. Up to now my mind has been moving fast, in short sentences. Flashing up possible answers like a quiz show. True, false or pass. For the first time I have a chance to grasp how deep in trouble I really am. My kayak is parallel to the pirogue. I try a light push on his edge to see if there is a chance I can flip it over and make a run for it. It’s bound to buy me another 100m or so, but if they catch me I will need more than a magic word to save myself. The most likely outcome being blunt trauma to my head. I have rules about never hitting first in a fight I can’t win. Once you opt for aggression you better be damn sure you are up for a fight, it’s a door that doesn’t close well.
With the soulless sound of paddles banging again wooden hulls, they start to drag me and my kayak upstream. I would rather not go.