We sit at our local post-open water swim coffee shop with the familiar view of Moreton Island out across the bay. The Sutton’s Swim Group and Fitsets Coaching crew are my tribe. A tribe I joined just half a year ago when the mornings were cold and the sea water clear. Someone verbalises a pondering about running around the island. There are some nervous giggles and some excited talk about what an adventure it would be. None of us can foresee where this conversation will lead.
Moreton Island is the third largest sand island in the world. It sits 32km (20 miles) off the Queensland coast near Brisbane, Australia. A quick Google search reveals that most hikers take three to five days to walk around the island. Reports form hikers measure the circumference measure a loop of the island at 85-90km (50-60 miles) depending on tides, We can find no records of anyone having run around the island. The fastest hiker we can find is a self-reported 33 hour loop with an overnight camp at Blue Lagoon. His discussion board post states that it was a tough hike.
Within a day, the loose conversation at the café turns into some Facebook Messenger conversations. First between myself and my running coach (soon to be adventure buddy) Paul Skelton. He creates a Facebook Messenger group called “Do Epic Sh#t – Run Around Moreton Island”. A select group are invited to the discussion. Ideas and plans are thrown around. Dates are discussed. Winter would be the sensible time to go. A 4WD support vehicle would be brilliant. A team of support crew would make failure less of a risk. And so on.
It’s late November. Summer is well underway and schedules are checked. The Facebook Messenger group has only been alive for about three days. Paul mentions he has some free days before Christmas. Winter is a problem for him due to his Ironman Triathlon and other ultra running goals. I have a window available on 23-24 December between a hiking trip to New Zealand and a trip to Holland to see family for Christmas. No one else in the group is free during silly season. There are no 4WD supports available and that means no crew. About 72 hours after the initial loose comment about running a lap around Moreton Island, I’ve booked two ferry tickets. Paul Skelton and I are going to Moreton Island on 23-24 December 2019 to have a crack at the FKT on a new route.
Time passes quickly between the purchase of ferry tickets and the date of our run. I have a 9km open water swimming race to prepare for and complete, a hiking trip to New Zealand and loads of work. Paul is busy too with training for himself, coaching others and work commitments at his day job. I do some of my run training sessions on the beach. Not nearly enough. He manages to hurt his calf and needs to recover. There are no planning meetings. No gear lists. Nothing. We are heading into the unknown with little more than trust in each other and faith in our abilities. We have a bail out plan in place and Paul sets up a Facebook Page to allow others to follow our progress.
Paul and his wife, Mair, pick me up outside my home at 5:30am. I arrived back from New Zealand the night before and went straight to a family Christmas party. It was cold in New Zealand and I hiked quite a few mountains. Not the ideal preparation for an attempt to run around a sand island in 30+ degrees centigrade. But, I’m committed and ready. I can tell that Paul is anxious. He is even less talkative than usual on our drive to the ferry. Mair keeps conversation going from the front passenger seat.
Mair takes a telling photo of us before we board the ferry. Paul looks serious. I look like a playful puppy. The ferry ride to Moreton Island is uneventful. We sit on the upper deck of the Tangalooma Flyer and watch as the brown water of the Brisbane River transforms to the deep blue-green water of outer Moreton Bay and then the lighter aqua colour of Moreton Island’s western beaches. Not for the first time will I say, “Guess what Paul … We’re here and we’re doing this.”
An important part of adventure is the risk of failure. That risk keeps us guessing. It makes us sharp. It spurs us on beyond perceived limits. The risk of failure allows success. It creates allure. And it allows us to attempt the impossible. As we hit the start buttons on our watches and start southbound from the Tangalooma Jetty on foot, I know there was a huge risk of failure. We are underprepared and don’t know each other all that well. Perhaps water bores will be dry or affected by the ecoli that had recently caused mass illness at the resort. Perhaps our feet would become too blistered from the sand. Perhaps we would have different capabilities and goals. Perhaps, my greatest fear would come true: I would be an unworthy adventure partner for Paul.
At 57 he has almost two decades more life experience and guts behind him than have I. I used to be a runner as a child but only cross country and triathlon. As a younger man, I ran a bit but was always injured and often quit pushing when the going got tough. This led to a five year break from the sport. It was only a year ago that I decided to give ultra running another crack. And also only a year ago that I was unable to run a 5km (3 mile) parkrun without walking over half the course. Would I become a burden on Paul’s efforts?
The first 14km of our run is a honeymoon period. Paul keeps us at a good clip using his Garmin. He has set it to measure the average pace per kilometre. He keeps us at a steady 10min/km of run-walk. It seems slow but we have a long way to go and the high tide has only just started to recede, so the sand is not yet hard underfoot. There is about 1m (3 feet) of moderately hard sand between the soft and sinking wet sand on the shore and the deep squishy soft sand higher up that never gets wet without rain. We pass the Big Sandhills and the Little Sandhills. These are landmarks that are clearly visible from Sutton’s Beach where we swim every week. I laugh and wave at the mainland in the distance, “G’day guys! We’re here and we’re doing it!” I know they can’t hear me. But it feels like my tribe are all sitting over on the Peninsula wondering how we are doing.
We are absolutely cruising. Paul calls it “making hay”. He is applying everything he learned about pacing from his success at South Africa’s Comrades Ultra Marathon earlier this year. “Don’t be an idiot at the start”, he always tells his athletes. He backs that up with, “And don’t be a wimp at the end”. We are running conservatively, watching osprey glide on the thermals above us and sting rays swim in the shallows. We run along a beach strewn with star fish and look out at sand curlews standing on small sandbanks waiting for the right moment to catch a fishy feed. Tough? Nah. This will be a breeze. We’ll pace ourselves like this for 30km-40km until the tide turns and we have to walk in the soft sand.
That was the plan. The island had other ideas.
At first we think the sand road along the coast will only last a few hundred metres to get us past a mangrove swamp. Paul continues to set a run-walk pace. We stop occasionally to let 4WD vehicles pass us by. They are grinding along at low speed and in low gear. We must seem ridiculous to the people in the 4WDs. Who comes to Moreton in summer on foot? A few hundred metres pass, then a kilometre and then more kilometres. The beach stays swampy and the road stays sandy. We walk more and run less. No point destroying our legs yet. We have a long way to go. We’re not even at the southern end of the island yet. Not until we have navigated over 11km of soft sandy tracks on a hot and humid day.
“What do you see, Paul?” I whoop as I see the sign showing the outer limits of Kooringal Township. “It’s still a long way to the pub,” Paul tells me. “This township is really spread out”. He is correct. We walk another kilometre or more between the township sign and the pub. “Hooray!!!” I cheer as I see a sign pointing towards the entrance to The Gutter Bar. I’m filming our approach and Paul tells the camera, “I never thought Andrew would be so happy to see a bar. He doesn’t drink.” I was stoked. It was edging closer towards midday and all I wanted was a cold drink and some food. Any food. I bought a small glass bottle of tonic water thinking it was soda water and a large plastic bottle of soda water thinking it was plain water. The tonic water tasted so bad but I drank most, happy to have cold bubbles inside me. I filled my drinking bottles with soda water and bought a small bottle of plain water to fill whatever else I couldn’t. My prize purchase though was a large bag of plain salty potato chips (crisps). I shovelled fistfuls of the salty carbs into my gob. I shared some with Paul. He was far less piggy about eating the chips. And then I packed the uneaten portion away in my pack for later.
The sand 4WD road continued for another few kilometres beyond Kooringal Township to the southern end of Moreton Island where it met the beach. I’ve never been so happy to feel hard packed sand under my feet. Paul jumped up and down with sheer childlike joy. We could run again. Our legs could recover from the sand road. We were back in the game. Time to round the southern beach while the tide was low.
The southern beach of Moreton Island is separated from neighbouring Minjerribah (North Stradbroke Island) by a narrow stretch of sea that is prone to high winds and unpredictable shifting sands. The beach is constantly moving and many dead trees form natural barricades between the tree line and water. We have to pass this section and the ever-changing Mirabell Lagoon before the tide rises. Our run-walk pattern resumes. We don’t manage to stay dry and soon are wading through salt water to pass the thick sharp fortresses of fallen trees. It’s an annoyance but we’re both still doing okay at the point. Just.
Shortly after we reach the island’s long eastern beach, I hit the wall. I can’t explain what happens. All I know is that I want to sit on the beach and cry. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to go home. I want my husband’s comforting arms around me like a child wants his mummy. I want to throw a tantrum. I want to quit. I want to yell and scream that this is stupid. But I don’t. I withdraw into myself a bit. I probably look like I’m pouting. Maybe I have my face like thunder look. I’m not sure. I don’t generally hide emotions well. I’m no longer looking out at nature; I’m stuck in a pit in my head. Paul says nothing. I’d warned him to give me space if I look like I’m suffering. He keeps us run-walking when all I want to do is crawl. He slows his pace to allow me time to catch up. He never chastises. Never sighs. Never comments. He is the rock who holds me on track. The little steam engine that keeps pulling my heavily laden carriages up the tracks. When I apologise for slowing us down, he reminds me that there will be a point at which he needs me to be the strong one. “We are a team”, he reminds me.
Rous Battery marks the first of our potential emergency bail out points. From here, a walking track leads 9km back to Tangalooma Resort. The campground is inviting. I stayed here a decade go with my son and best friend. We cooked food, shared stories and watched the sunrise. A photo from that trip is my favourite memory with my son. Me in a green bucket hat and him in a black jacket watching the ocean. I want to be living that moment right now instead of the pain I’m living. I want to stay here at the camp and walk back to Tangalooma tomorrow. We walk into the camp to find water. I stop at the first tree, fling off my pack, rip off my shoes and lay down on the ground. I take out my phone and send a message to my husband, “I don’t want to be here anymore. I hate this. I want to come home.” I don’t wait for a reply. I open Facebook to upload a photo and our location. We have run 36km with about 50km to go. I post a photo of my wrecked feet. My skin has been destroyed by poor shoe choice, lack of socks, no gaiters, sand and salt water. A sensible person would quit now. But as I scroll through my notifications, I read the messages of encouragement. My dad wrote that he admires how I never quit, even when things get tough. Heart and Soles Running have shared our Facebook event page and written encouraging words along with the share. Members of Trail and Ultra Running Australia have commented on my notification about the run. I can’t turn back now. I am tough. I am a bad arse. I have sat on the side of the track before and survived getting up. In fact, the times when I have pushed through the pain have led to the most amazing memories. How can I quit now? Paul returns from getting water. He later tells me that he feared I was going to quit at Rous Battery. I’m glad he didn’t tackle the topic with me. That he gave me space to hobble up the path to fill my water bottles and to compose myself.
I force myself to pull on my shoes and hit the beach. As we set off, I do the maths. We can still make the 3:30pm MiCat barge home tomorrow even if we walk slowly. I think our 24 hour goal is shot but 30 is possible. I need to be on that barge. I fly to visit family in Holland on Christmas Day. No ferry, no Holland.
“Shall we walk to the lighthouse from here and save our legs?” Paul’s question is music to my ears. It changes everything. It’s like a pressure valve releasing. Within minutes the stress releases in my mind and allows the post-wall dopamine hit to release. I rapidly transition from deeply depressed to high as a kite. I start to talk incessantly. I feel like chains have been released. I’m no longer cranky old mule. I’m now a playful puppy. I abuse Paul’s ears with conversation about everything. No topic is off limits when I’m on an ultra runner’s high. The world looks amazing from here! I get philosophical and emotional. I overshare and ask potentially intrusive questions. This is me at my best and worst. The man I am as we walk up the beach is at once enlightened and a fool. He is me without walls. Me without fears. Me in the raw.
I’m still on a high when we reach Eagers Beach where we refill water at a bore. Another man is there filling a massive bladder in the back of his car. It’s for his camp group further up or down the beach. They have 22 in their group including his seven grandkids. The sun starts to set as we return to the beach where we left off. I’m so high that even the 500m wall on soft sand didn’t bother me. My feet are now bleeding from all sides but I don’t care. Soon it will be night and my favourite time of any ultramarathon. It’s also my favourite time of day on the beach. A father casts a line into a gutter to catch fish while his young son plays happily nearby. A group of adults drink beer and wine in camp chairs watching the sun setting behind the island. A few cars go by. As might closed in, Christmas lights twinkle on tents that dot the dunes behind the beach. It’s a magical time of day.
We continue to walk up the beach towards Cape Moreton. Just before sunset I make out the feint outline of the lighthouse in the distance. We cheer. “Guess what Paul?” I ask for the umpteenth time. “We’re here and we’re doing this!” It’s a statement that keeps me in the moment. One that I draw on to remind me to enjoy the experience and not squander it. I will only be here in this exact experience once in my life and many people would give anything to have this chance.
Stars appear. First just a planet to the west. Then a few stars over the sea. Eventually the sun goes to bed and stars dominate the sky. The moon is having a late start tonight and the minimal light pollution allows the stars to take centre stage. We leave our headlamps turned off, using the lighthouse beacon as a guide. I feel so happy in this moment. I know that in a dozen hours I’ll be almost begging for the dawn. But for now, I revel in my favourite time of day.
“Look, my shoes are making sparks.” I notice that every so often my shoes are leaving trails of light in the sand or lifting sparks off the sand. Paul mentions something about jelly fish and, almost on cue stands on one that fully lights up. The clear round jellies that we’ve been passing all day turn into bioluminescent beings after dark. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. It’s like I’m in a movie like the Life of Pi. “The waves are lighting up!” I exclaim. “True. It must be the jelly fish being smashed about.”
Paul is in a low point now. The lighthouse doesn’t appear to be getting any closer and he needs to rest every 5-6km (3-4 miles). At times now it’s me who pushes on ahead, walking faster than he can keep up. But he never complains and keeps looking strong.
It’s an odd sensation when we almost bump into the cliffs at the headland. Well, we’re probably 20m away when I see them. But it feels like we could bump into the cliffs. Torches on we find the sand road up and over the headland. The gradient sign shows a 20 per cent climb. That’s steep. It’s also the easiest part of the entire adventure. The sand road has matting underneath to enable 4WD tires to grip in. It saves us a lot of effort. North Point campsite appears quickly and we stop to refill water, use the bathrooms and send messages home after a long stretch without phone service. 61km down at midnight. We believe we have just 20-25km to go. A miscalculation that will haunt us later.
From North Point we have to keep moving. Our pinch point lies ahead: the Heath Island creek crossing. At this point we still believe this is a single crossing but we will learn it is currently a series of crossings ranging from a few metres of ankle deep water to almost a hundred metres of knee deep water. The water is clear and fish will jump in the light of our head torches. Unlike the eastern beach where we could walk without lights, the northern beach is a place of shifting sands, creek crossings and debris. So we walk under lights for the entire section.
Leaving North Point camp around midnight we walk to the beach to discover water lapping right up against the tree line. A few tense minutes follow as we walk down the soft sandy 4WD track towards the west. We are anxious now about both Heath Island and the potential for the beach to be washed away and us to need to follow the road to Bulwer Township. Neil Ennis labeled this road a 10/10 on his toughometer on a fat biking adventure so I think it will be worse to walk. Fortunately, we find another entrance to the beach, which is dry.
Around 1am we cross what we think is the Heath Island crossing. “Is that what I lost so much sleep over?” Paul muses after crossing ten metres of ankle deep water. As agreed, we stop on the soft dry sand near the creek for a ten minute power nap. I’ve been struggling with sleep monsters since 11pm when my time zone confused body started to believe it was the early hours of the morning (a side-effect of a week in New Zealand immediately preceding this adventure). Ironically, as soon as I lay down sleep eludes me but Paul was gone to the land of nod. From here, my high dissipated and I hit my second wall of the adventure. A wall that I never quite crossed until I was within 200m of the finish.
The actual Heath Island crossing (or final crossing of a series of crossings) came around 1:30am. It was as expected: 100m wide and knee deep. The water was tantalisingly clear and a swim would have been welcome. That is: had we not still had hours of hiking ahead of us.
From here the rest of the hike became a battle of mind over body. I start to feel feint and an urge to vomit. My feet are now so bad that I cannot take my shoes off. I’m wearing Vibram FiveFingers and the second toe on my left foot is so swollen that I cannot get it out of the toe hole. Paul gives me Nurofen (Ibuprofen) for the pain. It helps and I perk up slightly. The dizziness goes away. When I get home and wash my feet, I will see why I felt this way.
There is very little joy in the final 15km of this adventure. We are both out of steam and desperately holding on. Paul tells me later he was worried I wouldn’t be able to finish when I told him I felt feint and wanted to vomit. I never doubted him. He held his agonies inside totally stoic and strong. A rock for the whole trek, his presence and determination kept me moving long after I should have called it quits.
The only reason I know we passed Bulwer Township is because we hit Cowan Cowan. The Township runs on generators and solar so most people turn off their lights at night. Fishing boats and yachts bobbed in the sea with mast lights on. Otherwise the word was dark and quiet. I hated it now. My joy of the night long replaced by a need to finish the journey. A need for sunrise. A need for sleep. We slow perceptibly. I can only manage about 3km (2 miles) at a time before I have to lay in the sand to sleep for 2-3 minutes. Those 2-3 minutes are intense slumbers of vivid dreams. Paul makes sure we keep moving. He wakes me gently with the simple question, “Are you okay to keep moving?” I want to say “No”. But each time I get my sand covered body off the ground and walk on.
Kookooburras start to laugh as we come to the end of Cowan Cowan Point. “Fifteen minutes to sunrise,” I state with some slight joy. “Paul, guess what? We’re here and we’re doing this.” This simple statement still keeps me moving. It helps me find myself in the moment. After hours of despair I feel a twinge of pride that we have made it this far. We are at about 80km in and the kookooburras are laughing to greet the dawn.
Darkness gives way to a grey dawn. There are too many clouds for the sun to burst through. I’m grateful because it has been hot and humid all night long. I took off my shirt after sunset and only wore it for an hour while my body shivered and shook in shock. That was hours ago. Being shirtless means my chest, back and arms have on them a layer of sand like a monkey has hair. I am no longer taking off my pack to sleep. I just flop down face first in the sand with only my arms as pillows.
Rounding Cowan Cowan we can see Tangalooma Resort in the distance. It’s still 5-6km (3-4 miles) away. I grab Paul and hug him. I could just cry tears of joy on his shoulder but we need to keep moving. We’re both running on empty and stopping too long could mean we never get up. I can see his pain in his face and I am sure he can see mine. We are in this together. A team to the end.
We watch a fin emerge from the sea, quite close to land. It is a shark hunting its breakfast. It’s probably a tiger or hammerhead shark. As ocean swimmers, we discuss the shark with fascination. A pod of dolphins soon draws our attention. Their dark fins and bodies can be seen cruising further out to sea. Paul watches them at each stop as I take my power naps. Later, when I feel more philosophical and overcome with emotion, I will wax lyrical about the shark and dolphins. But in this moment, I’m only just coming out of the place of despair.
We stop every kilometre now. Laying in the sand. Desperate for it to be over. Unable to process what we are about to achieve. We have named the sand “Devil’s Dust”. A term Paul coined 40km ago at Eagers Beach. We sit on the logs that mark the start of Tangalooma Resort’s private beach. The jetty and finish line are just 1km away. The tide is high and we are walking in soft Devil’s Dust. I can no longer wear my shoes. It takes ages to remove them with my toe so swollen. The damage that is visible through the sand make me feel ill. Blisters and blood. That’s all my feet are.
Paul is a walking zombie. I catch up with him and keep marching to the jetty. I cannot stop. If I do, we are toast. I reach the jetty but do not touch it. Paul stops just 10m (30 feet) short of the finish. He is stuck. His eyes reach out to me. “I haven’t touched the jetty yet. You’ve got this mate.” I call out to him. He moves one foot. Then the other. Painfully he reaches the jetty. We have an awkward moment of confusion until I hug him and we touch the jetty together.
21 hours 43 minutes earlier, Paul was my coach and I was his athlete. We both knew that in taking on this challenge, we would either never speak again or be forever linked through this shared experience that no one else would ever fully understand. Paul is not only my coach; he is my friend. We shared something epic that no one else can experience. Others will break our FKT or hike around the island. But no two adventures are the same.
As I write this story on Christmas Day I am flying to Europe to visit family. My feet are covered in dressings and so swollen that I had to remove the laces from my shoes. The airline has been transporting me through airports by wheelchair. I may need to see a doctor once I arrive in Holland to check that my feet aren’t infected. The rest of me feels fine. I need sleep. I need to rebuild my energy. And a sense of achievement is sinking in. When I return home from my travels, I will invite Paul and Mair to coffee with my husband and me at Mon Komo so that we can look over at Moreton Island. I will say, “Hey Paul, guess what? We did that!”
Strava links:
Garmin Connect links:
· Paul Skelton: https://connect.garmin.com/modern/activity/4361802867
YouTube video: https://youtu.be/MirnY2hAKA4
Facebook group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/2488677464688213/
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