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Carnarvon at full throttle: early on Saturday morning kiters, drivers and tourists gathered at Micks'. The swags, food, people, kites, beer and 4WD's were thrown in a heap and stacked as they fell and Mick's Hobie 18 was attached to Chris' Troopie. One by one the cars emerged from the dust and drove South. After Saturday night most people only woke up at Hamelin Pool where we hoped to catch the Stromatolites feeding. Nanga and Eagle Bluff followed on the tourist trail.

At Eagle Bluff it was low tide. We unhitched the Hobie and pushed it through the shallows, rigging it a long way from the cars in the blazing Shark Bay sun. Kites were pumped up as was Louie's new car stereo, its power measured in megatons. The Screaming Foetuses or Howling Pterodactyls or Autistic Armageddons at full blast killed all sandflies and also kept the sharks away.

Apparently, winds less than 18 knots happen at a 4% chance in November. Struggling to make speed in the 12-knotter we set off North. Now Kiting is very 'awesome and wicked, hot and it rocks' but it can also be very beautiful. The white sandbanks stretch 2 or 3 k's from the shore. The kite is up high and out of view, there's no noise apart from Louie's stereo in Denham and downwindkiting is nearly effortless. I swooped the kite down low, to scare the sharks towards the board. Chased the rays, looped the kite and yodelled with happiness. The wind seemed stronger near the cliffs - kiting in ankle-deep lukewarm water. Ah!

We all arived elated in Denham where the wind didn't actually die but certainly got critically ill. We sat under the trees clutching a cold beer and had flurries of excitement when the wind appeared to recover. The Hobie set off for Big Lagoon with Saint Chris gallantly volunteering to captain the cat for its female crew.

In the winds' death rattle we gave up and packed up the kites. A nice bouncy twisty sandy track through the bush led to Big Lagoon-n a very speccy spot. There was no cat in sight. The sun was a hand above the horizon, the coast is desolate, there were charts nor GPS's nor warm clothing aboard and a big worry descended on the group. Jon launched a kite as a beacon, Mick & I tried to find a track to the coast. Unsuccessfully. We drove to Denham instead figuring that its lights would make it a sensible place to steer to in the falling night.

Just short of Denham we spied a cat on the beach and found that it was Micks'. The crew had hitchhiked back to town, were cold and miserable and it transpired they'd capsized the Hobie and damaged its rudder.

We bounced back to Big Lagoon and had a bit of a barbie and a mulled wine under millions of stars at the lagoon's shore. 'Takes you back to nature' , roared Louie over the sounds of Putrid Nuclear Zombies' Greatest Hits.

More tourism at Monkey Mia the next day, where we saw the 10:15 wild dolphins and had to pay for the privilege. Brekkie, the hot artesian pool, things could be worse. Back at the beach the Hobie was gone.

We photographed tire-tracks on the beach but the Denham police reckoned it had just drifted off on the tide. Mick searched and eventually chartered a plane and did a fruitless recce along the coast. A bit in a minor key we drove the 350 K's back to Carnarvon, swearing at the roos.

To be continued....