Moana to Greymouth

Breakfast is a meat pie and coffee at the gas station then back into Lake Brunner and into the Arnold River. The Arnold has a steady flow, balanced by the lake, and at first it passes gently through old wetland forest. Then willows close in and we have to be careful to avoid little currents where the willows choke the river threatening to trap rafts and swimmers. "Watch out for swirlies" I call to Ian at one of the few tricky spots. He promptly falls out. He quickly self rescues hauling himself into the boat. The river widens with a simple takeout on the river left before the dam. The dam is spilling spectacularly.

Below the dam the river develops rapids. Some long with lots of rocks that need to be avoided. The willows lining the river make a swim dangerous in a way that makes the stretch more serious than the grade 2 rapids imply. It is fairly intense fast paddling with assorted relaxing bits.

I plough at high speed onto a rock I don't see coming. Tottering on top wondering how to get off without tipping I dip my paddle in the current and spin to facing upstream still tottering precariously. I lean hard, grab the current and brace strongly, flopping back into the water upright and breathing hard.

Soon the clear Arnold River merges into the brown-grey of the Grey River. The Grey is huge and intent on going somewhere fast. No real rapids but huge swirls that play with the unwary. I drop into a whirlpool - only about 500 mm deep on the surface but twisting fast. My feet are pointing at the sky and I am spinning wildly as the tail of the boat pops in and out of the hole. I paddle furiously away from the sucking centre as I rotate around its orbit and finally escape to see Ian looking alarmed and amused at my discomfort.

We knock out 53 kilometres of travel and are soon paddling the grey surge into Greymouth. The derelict chimneys, collapsing grey wood wharves, spooky smashed port cranes and roaring surf provide a grim post-apocolyptic feel.

We enter the fishing boat harbour and gently investigate the modern and ancient boats in the grim industrial landscape. We poke upstream in the urban estuary, ruined structures and mudflats. Tyres float past us on the incoming tide. It is hard not to be struck by the determined ugliness of it. To the point it has a certain dark charm.

Eventually we can paddle no further and drag the boats up the weedy stopbank at the sewage overflow warning sign. We strip off the scungy wet dry suits, roll the boats and walk the last kilometre to Anton's welcoming home.