Bali
to
Lombok

Stumbling around in the inky darkness outside our hotel, we gathered our bags, stuffed down the best meal we could muster at 04:30, and waddled off down the road with laden arms to find Ingo our support boat captain. Aboard the 'Divers Point', the crew were already well into their departure preparations; none of them much in the mood for breakfast at this ungodly hour either. For Andrew and I, however, as the two paddlers, our nutritional preparations were essential; forty kilometres, in anybody's book is a long way to kayak. Even without considering the potential for energy sapping swell, possibly a few capsizes, maybe a strong wind, and a ripping current of up to 7 knots, that everyone told us would most certainly carry us to a watery ending, this is a long way to paddle. So Andrew and I ladled in bowlfuls of cornflakes and raisins, and sluiced our cereals down with liberal quantities of mineral water.

Things really didn't get off to the best beginning. Our key piece of navigational equipment is our Deckmounted Garmin GPS (Global Positioning System), which shows our exact position on the surface of the world, and also has a fairly accurate representation of the islands of Bali and Lombok too. Head-torches blazing, we rifled furiously through our dry bags, desperately trying to locate them. Once, twice, and a third time, we looked through; nothing. In a state of chaos and mild panic, everything was emptied out on to the rear deck; still nothing. 'Well, that's just flipping great, isn't it!', my mind racing through the situation at light-speed. 'About to enter Indonesia's most fearsome navigation route, without our positioning device', what could possibly be more stupid and foolhardy. And so, with no more than a moments hesitation, we duly shoved ourselves off from the rocky coastline of Gili Semenyak, Bali's Eastern Cape; praying for fair weather, and good fortune. Of course, we did have compasses, a British Admiralty Chart of the straits, and a fast support boat; ready to power us to safety should complications occur. Nevertheless, it felt as if one arm was firmly tied behind our backs, and kayaking with one arm is not very effective, let me tell you. On this crossing there would be no comforting LCD screen, no slowly moving trace on the deck before me and no handy display telling us our forward speed towards Lombok's sandy shore. With our support boat here, and our bicycles and baggages loaded we could hardly turn round now. It was now or never.

A dappled orange light grew steadily from behind the towering bulk of Mt Rinjani; distantly looming on faraway Lombok. The gentle lapping waves, here in close to shore on Bali, catching each diffracted ray of the early morning fiery sun. A million orange wavelets invited us to accept the challenge, and so at just before 6am we were paddling towards the sunrise. The volcanic peak of Rinjani could clearly be seen piercing the low level of early morning cloud on Lombok. The first sharp and blinding rays of bright yellow came shooting towards us, our boats, paddles and faces now illuminated by the first light. Our spines a tingle with the serenity of the scene that we were beholding, we moved steadily onwards. The swell began to rise steadily as we moved out into the channel, but a kindly, smooth and lolling swell that would present us with no problems. At times like these, when the weather, the clouds, the sea, and the company is perfect, one has to give thanks, and one's thoughts turn briefly to higher forces. Both Andrew and I have broad smiles across our faces as we carve through the waves, we know we're so very fortunate to be here, right now, as so few have done before us. These peaceful early morning moments are ones to savour and to never forget.

Ahead we watch a hundred tiny triangles of silhouetted cloth frolicking on the rolling sea. The Amed fishermen have been at sea already for hours. As of course they do each and every day, in their own tiny outrigger canoes. Here they are some 3 kilometres offshore and behaving not as if they are in a treacherous waters, but rather they wave with carefree arms, feet dangling over the side of their boats, intrigued by the two newcomers to their patch, as they lazily haul out the odd tropical fish. Soon a fresh breeze has whipped up, and the fishermen are racing before the wind back home. 'Clearly its too easy for them in daylight! That's why their heading home for breakfast!'; we realise of course that whilst this is a huge challenge for us, this is a part of everyday local Indonesian life, and not in any way extraordinary. Last night in Semenyak we chatted briefly with a couple of fishermen, leaning on their outriggers. Explaining that they could make the crossing in their tiny canoes to Lombok from here in just 4 hours, we wondered whether this was just talk exaggerated for the tourists. Today we see that given the right conditions, this is quite within their capabilities, even if it is at the limit of ours!

We cover ground steadily as we push and pull our way across the Strait. Our arms and shoulders move steadily to begin with, although its not very long and they begin to grow heavy. Behind us, however, as we pause for our first spot of food and glucose drink, we are met with an awe inspiring sight. The early morning sun is projecting its warm rays straight across the strait on to the rising conical mount of Gunung Agung. Majestically commanding the whole of East Bali, it has no competition for the skyline. Looking back its an incredible view, my brother paddling across the surface of the deep blue waters, and the green and orange light undulating on the slopes of the volcano that commands the scene behind. To assist in our navigation, we imagine we're on a line strung between Agung and Rinjani. We make for a point just south of Rinjani and try to hold steady on our line; expecting the current to take hold of us at any moment, somewhere out in the heart of the channel. We wait and we wait, and by checking our return bearing we find that we are holding a steady course. Indeed this continues throughout our journey; no sign whatsoever here at the Northern end of the Selat Lombok of the fearsome currents that had been so talked about. The swell however has grown to be quite significant. Our support boat team are all feeling quite queezy, and trying desperately to hold their eyes on the horizon. As the heaviest of the waves approach, Andrew and I from time to time lose sight of each other, as we fall into separate troughs with thickset waves rising up between us. We lazily ride the waves, and notice that every now and again, we're actually paddling uphill as we climb the taller crests. Tiny whitecaps break over our decks intermittently, but only enough to keep us alert. With sea conditions such as these with the roll peaking at about two and a half metres, it's a pleasant and interesting change from paddling on calm waters. Our boats rise and fall effortlessly, and we cruise along, making a speed, by our support boats estimates (By triangulation on the volcanic peaks and the distant headland of Nusa Penida) of approximately 6 kilometres per hour.

Morning wears on, and the sun climbs higher across the sky. The shade of the water deepens and becomes ever more fantastic; finally reaching a deep cobalt blue in the middle of the day. The temperature also climbs and we find ourselves sweating now as we reach out towards mid channel. With a temporary lull in the waves, we take a quick dip over the side of our kayaks. Instant refreshment surrounds us as we plunge into the clear waters. Once liberated from the confines of our cockpit, we also make an improvised toilet stop. The feeling of relief is wonderful. And then, as we're bobbing around there's a commotion aboard 'Diver's Point'. A couple of light grey fins have broken the surface; we're being paid a visit by a school of dolphins. For just a couple of moments they circle us, and we can clearly make out larger adult bodies and the beautiful sight of a tiny baby fin tagging along. As if to say hello, a couple of the dolphins playfully jump up out of the water revealing themselves fully in the bright sunshine. We watch in total amazement, unable to speak or to express what a wonderful sight these creatures are. We wait for them to come up again, desperately scanning the horizon; but they're gone, disappeared into the depths. All we're left with is a fleeting memory of the family alongside our kayaks.

Lombok now begins to draw nearer, as our shoulders and arms grow heavier. We rest now for longer and longer breaks. We consume more and more food, and try to combat our tiredness by gulping down our energy drink. Interminably the island draws closer. Painfully we realise that although we can clearly see the shapes of tiny trees, and the lush green blanket that covers the lower slopes of Rinjani, we still have a long way to go. And of course our speed is dwindling the further we paddle. Somehow we keep the blades of our paddles slicing through the water, but it's excruciatingly slow. Our next sign of surefire progress comes as we see the bright white sands of the islands magnificent beaches pop up on our horizon. In a kayak, being so low to the water, one can't really see very far at all along the surface of the sea, and so we know that we must be very close to Lombok. The ensemble of the tiny white crests breaking over the golden sands, reaching up towards the dense green forests that carpet the slopes of the volcano, who in turn rise up to meet the cotton wool clouds and clear blue sky, can only make me think of one thing. After some 40km, we're reaching the promised land, the Paradise Island of Lombok. Only the faintest sign of development is apparent. We can just make out tiny thatched Sasak Cottages along the sea front. A few fishermen greet us as we make our final paddle strokes towards the shore. We ride in along the breaking surf, and our fatigue lifts. We've just a short distance to make along the shore to reach the Northernmost tip of Senggiggi beach, and we eagerly pull our way through the breaking waves. The dizzying and invisible depths of the straits now give way to a clear view to the rocky bottom some 3 or 4 metres beneath us. The water grows lighter and shallower as we draw nearer. Its early afternoon and as we make our final dash between the breaking waves, the palm trees are gently swaying. A couple of pineapple sellers rush up to us as we jump out of the kayaks to let our legs find solid land once more. 'Tiga ribu rupiah' they call out to us, hopeful of a sale, but somewhat confused by our appearance. All we can manage to think about however, as we stagger between the lines of beautifully painted fishing canoes, is the cool fresh water of the shower that will wash our salt encrusted faces and the clean soft sheets of the bed that will welcome us into a deep sleep.