THE GREAT ORANGE RIVER TUBE RACE

In August 1968, Sterkspruit trader Jimmy Mather, in order to raise funds for his favourite charity, the Red Cross, decided to arrange a tube race down a stretch of the nearby Orange River, ending at the Mayaputi Bridge. Jimmy had been in a POW camp during World War 2 and he was always grateful for the role which the Red Cross had played in helping him to survive this horrific chapter of his life. The race was to take place on a Saturday afternoon and was to be followed by a dance at the tennis club in Sterkspruit. The entrance fee was for the charity and the race was widely advertised in neighbouring Zastron.

Tom Wiggett, the Barclays Bank manager, decided that I should take part and arranged with his brothers-in-law who owned the garage, to have a double tube improvised out of two huge earth mover tubes, crimped in the middle and held together with a light steel frame. It looked pretty impressive and I felt we’d do well. (My partner was a young fellow related to the garage brothers). I still recall my fond mental picture of how it was going to be : Sitting back idly on the tube, basking in the sun, having a smoke, letting the river take us along and occasionally paddling a bit to keep direction…….. nothing dangerous or even particularly strenuous. Boy, was I ever wrong ………

What I didn’t know was the Orange was at a particularly low level and was just barely flowing. It was nothing at all in fact, like the wide muddy river flowing swiftly, in my mind’s eye. Also unknown was the fact that the river has rapids and even a small waterfall along this section, not to mention a giant whirlpool. Worst of all, what looked like just a short hop along the river on the map, not much more than a couple of kilometers, due to lots of loops and kinks, was probably closer to a 10 kilometer long course.

There was a substantial turnout of Sterkspruit and Zastron people at the starting place. A cheerful spirit prevailed and there was much laughter and bulldust around as we started “launching” our tubes. It was a jumble of all sorts as we took off – my partner and I started paddling out into the main stream but to my horror, those monstrous tubes balked at moving forward. I was waiting for the current to take us along but our vessel just sat stubbornly in the water and would move only if we paddled. It wasn’t long before I was huffing and puffing, sweating heavily in the August sun. After about a kilometer, I was suddenly aware of the sound of rushing water and before we could stop, we found ourselves sliding down a substantial rapid. Instead of rushing down it at high speed as might be expected, we slid for a few metres and then got well and truly stuck. I don’t recall how long we battled to get down that rapid but I was already wondering if this race was such a flippin’ good idea.

On the rapids, the Selzer brothers passed us on their lighter, more buoyant tube. No sticking around for them as they shot past at breakneck speed, yelling in alarm. I heard afterwards that they had a bottle of something fortifying, tied to the tube on a piece of string but that they never had a chance to sample the vintage, as the bottle broke on that very rapid!

That’s how the afternoon went – stretches of calm, sluggish water followed by stretches of rapids. We soon realized that going down rapids was not something our craft could achieve so when we heard the noise of rushing water, we’d paddle to the side, lift the ridiculously heavy monster onto our shoulders and walk around the obstacles. During one of these portages to get round a waterfall a couple of meters high, I happened to look back. There came Charlie Mather whose partner had deserted him and left him to carry on alone and he manfully plunged over the fall with a mighty shout. He disappeared completely in the deep pool below the falls and I feared for his life but we were already too far ahead to help. Not much later, as we were once again valiantly trying to propel our leaden craft through uncooperative waters, Charlie came marching along the riverbank, carrying his deflated tube on his shoulders. The man had had enough – he was wet, cold and thoroughly disgruntled.

There was a place more or less halfway along the route, where there was an opportunity to get off the river and up to a road – a good half of the previously spirited crowd decided that tubing down the Orange was for the birds (fish?) and they retired from the race. Some sort of insane pride stopped us from doing the same and we plodded and paddled on grimly, hoping to see that damn bridge around every new corner.

I should mention that the river runs deeply down from its banks, almost like in a canyon, along this stretch and to compound our misery, a chilly August wind started blowing up the canyon. As the afternoon progressed it became stronger and stronger until at times it was blowing us upstream! Yet there was no giving up now, mainly because there was no exit point up the precipitous banks. We had started just after two and now the sun was sinking in the West. I was more dispirited than I have ever been, either before or since. I was numb from cold. I had been sitting in icy water for hours and my parts down there had totally retreated in disgust. My hands had raw patches from the endless paddling and my shoulders were bruised from the spells of portaging which they had had to endure.

I had got to the point where I had that “thousand yard stare” one reads about – my unfocussed gaze ranged far ahead, ignoring all around me and wishing only to see the girders of the Mayaputi bridge. And then at last, in the gathering dusk, we came around a final bend and there, the most beautiful bridge in the world marked the end of our ordeal. But that darn ol’ river still had one surprise up its sleeve! In the last few hundred meters up to the bridge, it enters a narrow, rocky gorge and picks up speed but before it plunges into the channel, it forms a large whirlpool in which we found ourselves trapped. Next thing we were going round and round merrily and getting no closer to going into the mouth of the gorge. Talk about frustration.

I think pure desperation and the thought of spending the remainder of eternity whirling round and round like veritable Flying Dutchmen of the Orange, spurred us on to some really spirited paddling and we finally shot out of the maelstrom and into the swift flowing channel. Almost below the bridge we spotted some people on the rocks and we headed for them. They helped us and our lumbering tubes up the steep cliff. I was barely able to reach the combi waiting to take the last stragglers home. We were told that we were second last (but finishers!) and that they were just waiting for Garth Cusens and his crew on their rubber dinghy to stop whirling round and round and come on home. It was dark by then and we had spent at least five hours being cold and wet and miserable, for the sake of Jimmy’s charity.

It seems almost amusing now, all these years later but at the time it just wasn’t funny. I simply went back to my flat, downed a few substantial shots of Red Heart Rum, got into a really hot bath and rediscovered some of my parts which I was sure had dropped off into the Orange. Finally I fell into my bed and slept for 8 hours, non stop. No damn dancing for me, no sir……

The “race” statistics are no longer available and more’s the pity. Out of the scores that entered, far less than half finished. The eventual winner as I recall, was a schoolboy in a kayak – a flippin’ CHEAT and home in less than two hours. The first tube home was probably another youngster who propelled himself downstream by means of flippers – another darn CHEAT ! Big Baas Jims (as I always called him), that fit, brawny Scot, finished well up the field and was even able to attend the dance afterwards. I’m sure his Missus, Aunt Louise and his 5 daughters were very proud of him. He sure put us flabby young guys to shame.

Fitness and sport fanatics out there will probably find it amusing that I feel our second-last placing is something worth mentioning but believe me, it was a heroic achievement for someone as ill equipped physically as I was (and am). They give no prizes for ending second last in ANYTHING but here I am more than 50 years on STILL crowing about my achievement!

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