Kayaks in Khor Al Najd

When someone says 'Fjord' it's normal to think somewhere cold and ice-bound, but there's a shattered land at the tip of the Arabian peninsula riven by deep fjords where no snow falls and the sun scorches mercilessly all year round.
It's called The Musandam.



On a breezeless, sultry November day I found myself paddling on mirrored-water bound by towering ridges that tumbled rock-strewn into the deep. Ahead and behind, good friends dipped and pulled their paddles, scattering glittering droplets like diamonds carelessly discarded. From each boat, like a spiderweb in the dawn, a fishing line caught the light as the lures dragging behind bobbed and curtsied to unseen fish.



My kayak sliced effortlessly through the smooth surface and tossed tiny rippled wakes that caught the sun. All was silent, the loudest sound the gentle splash of the paddle and the buzzing of my ears. Each paddle-stroke a measured dose of calm that coursed through my veins and progressively dissolved the stress and annoyances of city life. I let out a deep peaceful sigh.



As the sun climbed so did the temperature and the humidity with it, no breeze stirred to cool us. In local fashion I tied a ghutra around my head to shield it from the sun and cast a shadow for my eyes, leaving a tail at the back to protect my neck. All my fellow paddlers were riding dedicated fishing kayaks piled high with camping gear and assorted fishing tackle. My kayak, a skin-on-frame Kodiak, was the odd one out, but by far the most stable and comfortable of them all. My camping gear was all stowed below deck and I'd jury-rigged a fishing rod holder to allow me to troll for whatever predatory fish cruised below the surface.

I spied something floating ahead and paddled closer, the stench of death and decay assailed my nostrils as I pulled closer. The corpse of a turtle drifted aimlessly in the stillness.



The water was crystalline and when the depths rose to within 20 feet of the surface we could clearly make out coral formations and sandy stretches.
The convoy broke up at times as some when closer to shore and cast into the shallows with plugs, reeling them in quickly so they jigged and jittered across the surface. At one point, trolling close to the shore, but where it still dropped off steeply, I heard then felt the splash and plunge of a garfish as it went for my lure, but to no avail. The fish remained elusive all day.




After a few hours we rounded a point that opened the fjord up to the east, and the Indian Ocean, and exposed us to a stiff breeze that we'd been shielded from so far. With relish I paddled into the stiff chop and felt my boat hug and caress the incoming swell. The fishing kayaks, loaded and top heavy as they were, did not fare so well and it wasn't long before the party decided to turn around and cruise back into more sheltered waters. I decided to stretch my legs and ease the numbness of my butt, so paddled ahead and pulled onto a small rocky shelf. The water was so inviting that I donned mask and fins and snorkeled around looking at the coral and bright reef fish, triggers, parrots, angels, puffers and surgeons.




The rest of the afternoon was spent idling along, casting the occasional line and swimming every now and then, until we reached a wide pebble beach that was to be our base camp for the evening. Kayaks were pulled ashore, tents were rigged, firewood was gathered and frozen water bottles hacked up with knives to provide ice for the day's end G&T. As the setting sun painted the opposite shore in roseate hues we casted towards the drop-offs, placed patient fingers gingerly on the taught lines and waited, drinking in the immensity and the silence.





This part of the world is prime scorpion country, aqrab in Arabic, but I decided that on such an evening I would not be sleeping in a tent but under the canopy of the northern constellations and so made my camp just above the high water mark on a large tarpaulin. A million dollar view for the price of some sweat.



At last the fish started biting and we soon had fresh Sheri scaled, gutted and waiting for the coals. There are few meals more satisfying then fresh caught fish grilled over an open fire right at the shoreline. We, big men all, with a day's paddling behind us, ate 'til replete.

There was no moon that evening and water was black velvet in the night, some went swimming and the phosphorescence sparkled green in the inky dark. Slipping quietly away from the swimmers I quietly eased my kayak into the brine and paddled out. It was pure magic, each paddle stroke a splash of vivid green, fading fast, and a tiny luminous wake trailing behind. The water was so clear and the phosphorescence so strong that I could clearly see green comet trails below the surface as spooked fish darted away from the looming shadow of my boat. After a few minutes I shipped paddles and simply drifted in the depth of the dark and the quiet murmur of soft voices, the only light a gentle glow from the fire on-shore and the occasional phosphor-flare of darting fish below.

Late into the night we sat in the cool water and chatted as the wheel of heaven swam it's great arc over us, the stars matched by the sparking water from a moving hand or shrugged shoulder. By the time my head hit my pillow I was asleep, neither cold nor scorpion would be able to wake me.

I drifted up from fathomless sleep and became dimly aware of the smell of dawn woodsmoke and the stirring of the camp around me. Coffee! Then breakfast made over the open fire and the packing of camping gear. Since our landing the day before, the tide had dropped and risen and dropped again and so the kayaks had to be manhandled to the water before we pushed out from shore to start the day's journey back to our launch point of the prior day.



We were in no hurry, and again we loafed along dragging our lures, casting along the shore and snorkeling here and there. Like the day before the water was clear and every now and then, even from the cockpit of my kayak, the shape of a large stingray could was discernible against the buff sand.





A tuna, silvered flanks shining, breached ahead like a small dolphin, eliciting excited shouts and a flurry of paddling to position the lures. But despite criss-crossing the area they refused to have a go, although more than once we saw one come closer to investigate.

It was over all too soon, my kayak dismantled, packed into its bags and loaded into the rear of the LandCruiser. A second fishing kayak lashed to the roof rack and cinched down against the jostling of the steep, rutted track that would take us over the pass to Khasab where we would stop at one of the many small roadside Biryani joints for plates piled high with chicken and rice, washed down with icy soft drinks. Then the border crossing and the long drive across the desert to home.

And to Buurman, Anton, Nic, Jacques and the not-so-light-anymore laaities: Dankie Manne!



Afterword: I did not take the picture below, it was taken by a fellow paddler named Jacques Bezuidenhout when I handed him my camera and asked him to shoot a few of me. I just did some post-processing for black and white. Seeing as I'm usually behind the camera it's nice to get shot of myself now and then. Thanks Jacques, it's a great image.



After the Afterword: All the images in this post were shot with my $70 Nikon D100 mentioned in this post. It's not the camera, folks, it's your eye!

Craig
sunburnt ... and in need of a shave.