Walking 160 km on the beach over a long weekend is no mean feat and it presented an unusual challenge for long-standing friends Ken Keet and Des Martin. It was the pre-Koeberg era and both still had office jobs - still slaves of the collar-and-tie regime five days a week. For recreation they chose the outdoors and beachwalking in particular. As working wives ourselves, Marianna and I gave our full support to their activity as it gave us time to catch up on our home chores.
Then a germ of an idea began to formulate in our husbands' minds - to attempt a mammoth beachwalk from Saldanha Bay to Bloubergstrand over the Easter weekend. Although we both thought they were nuts, we fully supported their proposed adventure.
They spent a camping weekend at Melkbosstrand, taking with them a quantity of provisions which they could use on their walk down the coast. They buried their cache - tinned sausages, canned fruit, fruit juice and other items - in the dunes about 16 km north of Melkbos at a place they named Dump No.2.
Then, closer to the big day we all went to Yzerfontein for a picnic and our menfolk buried a similar quantity of provisions in the dunes south of the town, at a place identified as Dump No.1.
After work on the Thursday evening before Easter, each carrying a backpack weighing about 15 kg., they set off by bus for Saldanha Bay. It was an idyllic night when they arrived and they decided to make an immediate start on their great trek. Having covered about 12km in two hours, travelling in the direction of Langebaan, they setup camp for the night.
They made an early start on Good Friday, but encountered a hitch at the southern end of the Langebaan lagoon. The ground was marshy and they floundered around in the morass for hours trying to find a passage to the strip of land which separated the marsh from the Atlantic Ocean.
Darkness was falling when they eventually found a way and, dead tired and still several kilometres short of their objective - the coastline - they set up camp at the roadside.
The next day they scrambled over rocks and crashed through bushes on their way to the coast, disturbing a number of buck and ostriches. The weather grew progressively colder as they continued their walk down the beach but the commentary of a South Africa vs Scotland rugby match on Ken's transistor radio helped them forget their tiredness and discomfort. Dog tired, but determined to reach Dump No. 1, they struggled on. Then it was supper and a well-earned rest.
Continuing their trek on the Sunday, they encountered another difficulty. It was high tide, so they had to plough their way south through the soft sand above the high-water mark. At noon they came across a cottage where the owner gave them fresh water with which they made soup and coffee, before falling asleep under a tree.
When they awoke later, feeling refreshed, they resumed the trek with renewed determination. En route they crossed the mouths of the Rondeberg and Modder rivers, both of which were running at a mere trickle, and made good progress.
Eventually Ken and Des arrived at another cottage and when they knocked to inquire whether they were on the right track for Bok Point, the couple who were spending the weekend there invited them to stay for supper. They feasted on a meal of boerewors, fresh fish and tomato sandwiches, washed down with piping hot black coffee. After thanking their host and hostess, it was back to their trek. At about midnight they picked up the Robben Island lighthouse and the sight of it spurred them on. Two hours later, after numerous detours and a hike across ploughed fields and a beach covered in shale, it was time to set up camp, their last reserves of energy exhausted.
The next day a freezing wind was blowing from the north, whipping up the sand which stung their legs as they pushed on towards home. In the early afternoon they came across their Dump No. 2, unearthed the food and had lunch.
After a 14km stretch Ken and Des finally readied Melkbosstrand, where they had supper at a café and telephoned home. Night was falling and a storm was brewing as they set out on the last leg of their mammoth hike. About two kilometres short of their objective the storm suddenly broke and they were drenched to the skin before they had time to struggle into their raingear.
Meanwhile, we were parked in two cars on the Blouberg beachfront facing the direction from which the men would approach.
After about an hour we suddenly saw a dim, moving light a long distance away. Then all was black again. The light reappeared later for a brief moment. It must be the light from their torches, we reasoned. We switched on the cars' lights to bright and waited.
Shortly after 9pm two bearded, bedraggled travellers walked into the headlights, identically dressed in bright yellow Sou'westers and matching raingear. In a spontaneous outburst of excitement Marianna Martin jumped out of the car and ran forward with arms outstretched, shouting "Which one is mine, which one is mine?" What a glorious reunion.
At the first opportunity our husbands took us out to dinner at the hotel where their beachwalk had ended - their way of thanking us for being so supportive of their venture.
(NOTE: this article appeared in the "Travel" supplement to "Sunday Argus" 10th July 2003 and is published here by kind permission of the author, Lorraine Keet via her husband Ken in a phone conversation with me.)
The photo below was recently sent to me by Ken Keet: according to Ken, it originally appeared in the house magazine of Old Mutual at the time. The quaility is not that great as Ken scanned the photo directly from the magazine!! Thanks Ken, appreciated!!
![[beach-hikers.jpg]](images/beach-hikers.jpg)
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