A northerly swell pounds the beach all night like war-drums but in the morning we awake to a brisk southerly. Far too stiff to circumnavigate the island as we had hoped and we opt to sit it out for the day and head off tomorrow. So it’s books and card games for us - futile attempts at fishing and frequent tea breaks. Crockett’s must be the best beach in the world to find yourself marooned with a mountain to climb, a brackish stream to explore and granite sands of a grade ideal for cleaning pots.

At two o’clock a well-worn fishing boat drops anchor in the bay. It’s an odd thrill to see humans again, and in need of a weather report, I paddle out for a chat. The captain is aloof and lugubrious in that charming Australian way with a heavy beard and a red-checkered bush shirt that’s seen many a day on the high seas. He tells me that they’ve run for cover with a gale brewing and adds the unnecessary suggestion, “You better get out while the going’s good mate”. A Tasmanian fisherman predicting wind is like an Eskimo saying it’s going to be cold; it’s advice worth listening to.

"We must run for our lives to cover the 30 kilometres of the last three days paddling in just one afternoon before all hell breaks loose."

Back on shore we heave gear into dry-bags and pack down the tent in a frenzy. Fortunately, there’s less food to stow and we’re off the angry beach in record time. My cell phone beeps with a text message from Simon at Freycinet Adventures, "Going to blow 4 nxt few days. NW up to 50 knots." The bureau must have hit a panic button. But we are already on our way, stroking hard into the channel with a 20-knot south-westerly on our hip and wind waves licking over the gunnels. We must run for our lives to cover the 30 kilometres of the last three days paddling in just one afternoon before all hell breaks loose.

A small pod of Bottlenose dolphins joins us at the mouth of the bay, surfacing between the kayaks and playing under our paddles, eyeing us up. The presence of dolphins has always been portent of a good passage for sailors, and we need all the good omens we can get. The seas are mounting and shifting closer to our beam; paddling in to them will be impossible. The wind is building steadily and the channel is unsettled with Tasman swells from the east and wind waves from the southwest. Progress slows inexplicably as we approach Weatherhead. The tide should be with us but we’re paddling like animals and making little headway relative to the shore. In fact we’re doing our best just to stay at a safe distance from the rocks.

After an hour of battling against the mysterious rip we turn the corner. With the wind at our stern we take a break for a snack on the run; gingernuts and water have never tasted so good. It’s another three hours to Coles Bay at best and there is little daylight left. As we paddle across Promise Bay the southerly drops and leaves me with a terrifying feeling that it will shift northwest, build and leave us exposed, alone and probably awash. It’s almost a relief when a grand gust of 25 knots resumes from the southwest and we plug on to Fleurieu Point riding rising swells. These kayaks are not whitewater boats, they’re big flat-bottomed PVC blimps chockers with tents and gear. But a few solid strokes and a good deal of ooching has them flying down the faces of the rollers, whitewater raging at the gunnels and nose ploughing under. I lean back, with my weight on the paddle and rudder correctly hard up to my waist in water and perilously close to submarining. The bow pops up (still with the camera mounted) and busts through the wave crest. Spray is everywhere.

And so it continues surging surfing and breaching for half an hour through Coles Bay, arms burning, shoulders cramping. We finally make landfall on Muirs Beach at dusk, Mary catching a barrel all the way to the highwater mark, and lie panting on the cold sand watching daylight wane and the storm build.

I’m saturated and wrinkled, my legs are badly cramped and it’s a struggle to straighten them. I must look like some old crank that’s just had a hip replacement. Indeed, I could probably do with one. I’m cold. My fingers have reached the point where they have lost all dexterity and one would have better luck tying shoelaces with your elbows. My hands are stuck in a permanent paddle grip that could well last for days.

Dripping and exhausted Mary and I stagger through the streets of the Coles Bay township as wind whines in the trees and dark clouds skate overhead. Locals offer know-it-all smiles; they’ve seen this sight a hundred times. They recognise that distinctive paddler’s shuffle, because any kayaker who has ever been here has left like this - exhausted, exhilarated, and badly in need of a shower.