First paddle of the year and it’s nearly May! I need to get out more. It was a calm day but as we’d not been there for ages, we decided to go inland to the ever-reliable Loch ‘Sion’, spread below a cirque of dramatic Assynt peaks. From the lay-by on the WMR it’s a half-a-mile’s trudge down to the west shore at Boat Bay, dipping through the hazel woods then tip-toeing over rotting walkways spanning slimy quagmires.
Down at the bay – bother! The skeg, clipped to hull through a zip tie, was MIA. The zip tie had probably succumbed to the UV, as they do. Oh well, I claimed years ago these IKs are controllable without a skeg, let’s see if that’s still true.
Below Suilven
On a flowing river, finessing the paddle strokes while solo, it works well at the cost of some flat-out speed. But two-up and with a tail breeze – that aeolian nemesis of paddlecraft – we scratched a scruffy traverse out to the mouth of Boat Bay where it was quicker to let the funnelled wind push us out into the main loch. Suilven sat to the north, Cul Mor was straight ahead and the ever-popular Stac Poltroon was to the south where panting lines of day-trekkers were eyeing us right now, some with what I liked to think was mild envy. By and by we reach Eilean Dudh, the islet just north of Eilean Mòr, where I went for a solo spin to see if the boat was easier to track solo. It was a bit, especially once off a tailwind.
That done, we paddled over to Eilean Mòr, parked up on the east side out of the breeze and found a flatish, dryish patch where some woodsman had made a rudimentary camp. I went off for an explore through the mossy-barked woodlands, like something from a fairy tale, then up to the unusually bald summit which in a month or two will be waist-deep in thick, green ferns. or is it bracken? All around the heather-clad hills still clung to the tawny hues of late winter and the branches of gaunt, leafless trees, deformed by the prevailing winds, reached northeast like some toga-clad heroine in a Romantic painting. May’s reliably sunny spells will soon put an end to all this drabness.
When the time came to paddle back, set against the wind the skegless Seawave was much easier to handle and satisfying to paddle. In fact I got so engrossed in the effort that amid the perspectiveless blur of yellows and browns I missed the small entrance back into Boat Bay and was steering us west towards the Polly Lochs.
‘This doesn’t look right’. And I was right, it wasn’t. A quick glance at the map and a turn to the northwest delivered us back to the right shore. Back home, the skeg lay in the gravel by the wall alongside a broken zip tie. Have I mentioned tough, TPU RovaFlex reusuables yet?
A fortnight later (that’s the frequency of sunny days up here) we looked down on a new perspective of Suilven and Eilean Mòr island from the windless 2800-foot summit of Canisp mountain, still clinging to the last of the winter snows.
Michael S from BC came up with a good idea for securing stuff, seats or thigh straps to the floor of your IK without resorting to the faff gluing on D-rings – something that takes application and the right glue to do well. He suggests the cavity formed between the floor and the sides when you pump an IK up can be used to jam in short tubes attached to tape loops. Example left is a Sea Eagle Full D-S, but I know Gumotex and other IKs I’ve owned have a similar space along the sides.
Pictured below are some Sherpak Quick Loop tie-downs which go from $15 a pair on amazon US. You can buy Thule ones for six times as much or search eBay for <Kayak Hood Trunk Tie Down Loops> sent from China for 7 quid. The idea is you shut them under your car’s bonnet, tailgate or doors (right) to help lash on stuff including boats.
But they could also be lodged in an IK’s floor/side cavities as you pump up, and of course can be positioned anywhere and slid forward or back. It’s possible the 1-inch diameter tubes shown may be too small and pull out, so make your own using larger conduit from a hardware store, or just a shore-side stick and washed-up rope. Below: I made my own. To be tested. Neato mosquito as my Kiwi mate used to say.
We set out to paddle from Chichester Town Basin, down the old ship canal into the tidal Chichester Harbour at Birdham Lock. Lois and Austin in two do-it-all, drop-skeg Venture Flex 11s (left) Robin and Elliot in an old Gumo Twist 2 and a newer Nitrilon one, both of which fitted into carrier bags. Plus my Seawave lashed to a trolley.
Nearly two hundred years ago Turner depicted tall ships gliding serenely along the then new 4.5-mile canal (above). During the canal boom preceding the railways, it linked Roman-era Chichester with the huge natural inlet of Chichester Harbour and the adjacent naval fleet at Portsmouth. To the east was a canal to the Arun & Wey navigation (left) which was a short-lived inland link between London and Portsmouth commissioned at a time when Napoleonic fleets threatened the English Channel.
Our original plan had been no less Napoleonic in its grandeur: a 15-mile lap of Hayling Island, but today the tides and winds were all wrong for that, and even with Plan B we’d arrive at Birdham at low tide to face an undignified, sludgey put in.
On Google maps the canal looked clear, with maybe a quick carry around a lock or two. But just two miles from the basin, a thick mat of Sargasso frogweed clogged the channel at the B2201 Selsey Road bridge (below), reducing speeds to a crawl. Worse still, over the bridge this unallied carpet of errant biomass ran on like forever, and probably all the way to Birdham Lock.
Was it a high-summer frogweed bloom? The initial two miles are kept clear by rowers, paddlers and the 32-seater cruise boat which hooted past us with a lone passenger tapping at his phone. But nothing bar the Solent breeze stirred the canal west of the B2201, allowing the thick Sargassian spinach to fester and choke navigation for even the pluckiest of mallards. A picture from 2008 (above) shows less weed at the bridge and a rather squeezy thrutch through a spider-clogged culvert under the road.
Abandon Plan B all ye who Venture Flex here. Austin called in an Uber: ETA 4 mins; ET back to his Volvo: 6 mins. Total elapsed recovery time: 16 mins, give or take. The internet of things – how modern! Soon the hardshells were lashed to the roof and the rolled-up IKs heaved into the spacious boot of the Swedish landraft with class-leading crumple zones.
A quick map check and I proposed Plan C: Pagham Harbour just down the road and out of the rising southwesterlies. I’d never heard of this medieval-era port which was now a bird sanctuary-cum-sludge repository, but Elliot had been spotting here so knew the way to the chapel at Church Norton, thought to be the mythical 7th-C source of the overdue Christianisation of pagan Sussex.
A 5-minute haul led to the shore, except the tide – which should have turned over an hour ago – was still way out, leaving only snaking channels accessible down muddy banks. We ate lunch, waiting, like Al Gore, for sea levels to rise. But when the time came nothing but irksome clouds of marsh gnats stirred as we padded over the springy salt-scrub to the nearest channel (above).
All around, collapsed jetties, concrete groynes and other arcane structures recalled Pagham’s 19th-century heyday. Back then the sea had been successfully sealed off and the land reclaimed for farming until a storm in 1910 broke through the embankment, reflooding the harbour for fair and fowl.
Another portage over a shingle bank got us to the main outlet leading to the sea and where the water was rushing out when it should have been filling. I realised that narrow-necked inlets like Pagham Harbour act like reservoirs, releasing their tidal fill gradually for hours after the sea tide has turned. In the tropical fjords of northwestern Australia’s Kimberley it can produce bizarre spectacles like the Horizontal Waterfall (left).
We drifted and boat-hauled through a strange, desert-like landscape of barren shingle banks speckled with forlorn fishermen and demure nudists until the spit spat us out into the English Channel like five bits of unwanted, flavourless chewing gum.
According to images and video on Save Pagham Beach (left), it’s staggering how fast the spit has grown once shingle management ceased around 2004; part of a new ‘natural coastline’ [money saving] policy. The spit has repositioned tidal erosion eastwards and along the shore, accelerating the scouring of Pagham’s foreshore and endangering the homes immediately behind. Recutting the Harbour’s outlet to the west (bottom picture, left) is thought to be a solution, but may transfer the flooding risk inside the harbour. Add in the protected SSSI status of the Harbour and the ‘homes vs terns’ debate becomes complex. Who’d have thought we just went out for a simple paddle.
Eastward along the coast, the assembled infrastructure of Bognor Regis rose from the horizon, while behind us the promontory of Selsey Bill kept the worst of the wind off the waves. With a helping tide and backwind we bobbed with little effort in the swell which gradually grew and started white-capping once clear of the bill. But as I often find, a sunny day and not paddling alone reduced the feeling of exposure and imminent watery doom. Only when a stray cloud blocked the sun for a minute did the tumbling swell take on a more malevolent tone. The buoyant Twists – hardly sea kayaks – managed the conditions fine and the lower, unskirted Ventures only took the odd interior rinse.
Talking of which, All Is Lost (right) was on telly the other night. Lone yachtsman Robert Redford battles against compounding reversals in the Indian Ocean after a collision with floating cargo container wrecks his boat. A great movie with almost zero dialogue.
Just near Bognor all was lost for real (above and left). Only a fortnight earlier, a similar, lone-helmed sailing boat had lost its engine and unable to sail, drifted onto Bognor’s serried timber groynes. Less than two weeks had passed and already the hull was now cracked like an eggshell and the masts were gone (maybe removed). But unlike the doomed Redford character, on the day the Norway-bound sailsman had been able to scramble ashore.
These groyne stumps – designed to limit longshore shingle drift – could also be a bit tricky in a hardshell if the swell dropped as you passed over one. And just along the shore was another wreck (above) protruding gnarly, rusted studs which may well have sliced up an IK. Mostly submerged when we passed, some post-facto internetery revealed it to be the remains of a Mulberry Harbour pontoon, one of many built in secret during WWII as far as northwest Scotland, then floated out on D-Day in 1944 to enable the sea assault on Normandy.
Our own beach assault ended at the truncated remains of Bognor pier, proving the sea eats away at this whole coast. Bognor is a step back to Hi-de-Hi! Sixties Britain when we did like to be beside the seaside. All together now! So ended a great day of paddle exploring. Uber!
See also: the similar but wider and DS-floored Thaya
Gumotex have rebranded 2013’s Solar 410C as a Solar 3 (some call it ‘Solar 019’). Everything about the two boats appears to be the same.
Actual differences only add up to a longer front splash deck (left) with a metal support to stop sag – and a drain slot at the back (right; an idea copied off my old Sunny, just so you know!).
The 410C evolved from the slightly shorter Gumotex Sunny (left), in its day a brilliant IK which I used for years and years, until the flexing and size outgrew my needs.
Pressure in the Solar 3 remains the standard 0.2 bar, but this only becomes an issue when used solo at sea (the boat sags in the middle and can swamp more easily). Two or three up on flat water, it won’t be so noticeable or will be part of the fun. The Solar 3 is pitched as an easy river-touring or family recreational boat where price and space matters more than pressure and performance; for that you have the 0.25 bar Seawave which costs 40% more. For now the Solar remains the an all-tube and inexpensive option to a wider, dropstitch Thaya and is the last of the classic Gumotex longboats.
Performing my cutting-a-kayak-in-half trick gave me a long overdue chance to see exactly how they’re put together, as well as other stuff, like why it was failing and how well certain glues stuck.
The neoprene inside I used to assume it was the same coloured coating inside the boat as out; it’s just simpler. But of course, the diagram left is clear: what’s outside and what’s inside an IK hull is not the same stuff. There’s no need to waste UV-resistant hypalon coating (or colouring or that matter) inside the boat’s benighted chambers. All it needs to be is the same durable and airtight coating, and neoprene – the brown rubber-like coating left – does that fine. I bet I’m not the only one to mistake ‘neoprene‘ as simply that closed-cell sponge used in wetsuits or laptop sleeves. In its solid form it’s a durable synthetic rubber, but I presume lacks the full-on UV resistance of hypalon which DuPont invented shortly after.
I-beam floor As mentioned here, an inflated vessel will seek equilibrium by attaining a rotund form, be it tube or sphere. A flat inflated plane such as an airbed or an IK floor needs to be a series of parallel tubes unless it’s just a non-inflated sheet, like packraft- and white-water raft floors. So this is an IK I-beam floor (above): probably the same tough core of nylon or polyester scrim, but without the impermeable hypalon and neoprene coatings of the exterior panels. Note the pre-folds or creases to help the Semperit pack flat. I imagine modern IKs do the same, but it all explains the necessary attention to detail which makes ‘tubeless’ IKs like this so labour intensive, compared to ‘bladder’ designs like Aire.
Twin side-tube IKs like this Forelle, the Incept and Grabner Holidays, have two smaller tubes one on top of the other, rather than one fat side tube like my Seawave (below, red) or Amigo. It gives the same buoyancy, more freeboard (above water height), a slimmer profile (more speed) and more volume inside (easier loading). The red Seawave below is 82cm wide; the Semperit is 72. It makes the boat look a whole lot better too and overall, because it’s also as stable, I’d say it’s the best design for an IK, but it also needs I-beam sections to constrain the two side tubes.
I can’t say I could suck air through the scrim easily, but I’m pretty sure it’s porous – I didn’t find any transfer holes to allow air to flow between adjacent tubes – they might be a weak point. When an IK like this is over-inflated (or left in the sun) and has no PRVs (none on the Semperit), it’s this scrim which either tears apart, most probably at the T-join where it’s glued to the neoprene. I tried tearing sections of scrim by hand; impossible where it was uncut, but as soon as you nick it with a knife it would tear quite easily, like thin cotton cloth. This fabric was at least 40-years-old and had one or two patches of mildew, but was still tough and the whole assembly of the boat has held together amazingly well over the years.
Where mine failed Inspecting the fatal second leak alongside the earlier repair, it seemed air was pushing through where two sections of I-beam scrim butted against each other. Perhaps the old coatings stretched differentially here or were just worn out. It did look like the hypalon was simply flaking away. I could have fixed that leak but, as mentioned, another would probably pop up whack-a-mole style somewhere else, quite possible while at sea in either my- or a new owner’s hands.
Glue test I repaired the big original ‘L’ tear with a 5″ round patch of hypalon and two-part glue (above and left). I then patched a down-to-the-scrim scratch under the hull with one-part Bostik 1782 (left). I used the same glue to repair the initial new leak inside (bubbling water, above).
Although I’m pretty sure they’d have lasted, I could easily pull off the Bostik patches by hand. Pulling off the big round Polymarine’d patch was another matter. It just so happened I’d sawn through the round patch but, only once I got some pliers under a lip (above left) was I able to separate it from the hull. As you can see in the big image below, either the ancient orange hypalon coating of the IK, or the newer red hypalon of the patch separated from their respective nylon cores – the glue’s bond was stronger than the actual hypalon coatings, new or ancient.
I get a bit lazy about having to faff about with two-part glue, and I also wonder if I ever guestimating the 25:1 ratio correctly. But as you can see, this stuff sticks. If you absolutely, positively want things to stay stuck or sealed, use two-part adhesives. I still don’t know if the second part curing agent merely speeds up the drying process, or is chemically integral to creating the very strong bond. I’d think it’s the latter, otherwise why bother.
Other stuff The distinctive marine plywood bow has lasted fine – no warping at all and the rivets are still intact. It may have been an early design solution to easily joining the three sections of the hull in a nice sharp point, though they managed that join easily enough at the back. Maybe it was as much for protection and a frontal tracking aid.
A couple of days after trying out the Semperit I noticed a scratch on the hull bottom (left) so decided to pre-emptively patch that with Bostik 1782 (less faff than 2-part). It looked like an old scratch which had opened up by reusing the boat. I reinflated a day or two later, but a few days on noticed the floor was flat. I pumped it up again – air was hissing from a crack in the hypalon coating inside the boat, more or less under the seat (below; colours enhanced for clarity).
This seemed a bit odd. The boat hadn’t been over-inflated or left in the baking sun, and there wasn’t any obvious rubbing in the two hours I’d used it, though I suppose this is a high-wear area and an old boat.
I suspected general, age-related delamination or entropic porosity. The outer orange hypalon coat can be rubbed or scratched down to the fabric core, as with the hull scratch I’d just repaired. But inside should be an airtight layer of neoprene. There’s no way of checking that without open boat surgery. To be honest, it’s what I half-expected from a 40-year-old IK, which is why I’d kept the refurb and expenses to a minimum. I suspect sudden use after many years possible neglect had accelerated decay. I see the keel-strake is coming away too, as are some other black patches holding the rusting D-rings.
I’ve experienced similar deterioration when buying old vehicles for long trips. They seem like a bargain and have a solid ‘they-don’t-make-’em-like-they-used-to’ reputation. But reviving them, or just asking them to perform as they once did, can lead to a string of failures until it’s just not worth it (left). Much depends on how they’ve been maintained over the years. I recall writing in one of my books (or maybe on here): “you can’t give your old gran a pair of trainers and expect here to run a marathon without having a heart attack“.
I patched the wear-hole with more 1782, reluctant to waste good two-part PolyMarine. I pumped up and filled it with water: all good, but an anomalous perforation somewhere else can’t be ruled out. That’s another thing I’ve learned with old cars and bikes: you replace the clapped-out engine then the clutch goes; you replace the clutch and the gearbox goes; you replace the gearbox and so on… The strain of refurbishment gets passed on to the weakest point, and when that’s repaired, to the next weakest point. An IK will get you to shore on two chambers, especially if it’s just the floor that’s gone. I had that once with the Incept. Out with your pals on a warm summertime river that’s no drama. Elsewhere, alone with the wind picking up; not so trivial.
Years later I learned PolyMarine make SealFlex – a latex sealant (right) to revive old inflatables, PVC or plastic. You pour some in each chamber and roll the boat around for a couple of days. It costs £26 posted for 500ml – possibly worthwhile on your cherished RIB; not so sure on this old IK but had I known of it I may have given the old Trout a pint’s dose. After that you’ve got to know when to call it a day, and that day may have come. It might be fine for a guest or a rec river boat, but I don’t do so much of that nor have space for more stuff than I need.
A few hours later the floor was soggy – this time it had let go a few inches up from the recent patching. Up to then I’d been considering putting it back on ebay with a clear semperit caveat emptor. But then I decided sawing it in half would be more fun and educational. I always wondered what exactly an I-beam floor looks like. More here.
A few pictures from a 5-hour, 22-km paddle round the Summer Isles on a rare day of near-zero wind and hot, sunny skies. From Badenscallie I went south past Horse Island and Iolla Mhor to Carn nan Sgeir, a quick loop around Meall nan Caolach, just a mile from the south side of Loch Broom, then right across to Tanera Beg to revive the legs with a walk up to the summit, and finally back to Badentarbet. Noticeable is the lack of fatigue when there’s no wind or waves to cut through. I’d have been more tired walking the same distance. A few days and a bit more wind later, I did a 14-km lap round Tanera Beg and was pooped.
Glistening, brassy kelp round the back of Meall nan Caoloach, or Sheep’s Hill.
Strange dangular life forms you only see at very low tides.
Chestnutty limpets.
Faults and folds on Carn’s south side.
View north to Ben Mor on the way across to Tanera Beg.
South of Tanera Mor, the cabin’s roof on Eilean Dubh.
Landfall at Mol Bheag on Tanera Beg. Should I worry about the rising tide? I’ll only be gone half an hour. (Sorry – bit of lens smudge from here onwards.)
On T.Beg’s 83-m summit looking ENE towards Achiltibuie and the Assynt mountains.
Southwest, the curious wedge-skerry of Stac Mhic Aonghais – Cliff of Angus. Must try and nip out there one time.
Boat still there with two rocks on the anchor line.
Looking SE: Carn nan Sgeir back left; Eilean Dubh on the right. A trawler passes by.
Storm-mashed tin can.
I find a superb crate/bench from a Fraserburgh trawler, and a massive pearl, too. Incredibly, this one is pre-threaded for a necklace which makes it even more valuable.
In just 40 mins the tide has risen a metre. I forgot that at mid-flow the rate of change is much greater. I wade in up to my shorts and clamber on with my treasures.Round the corner I come across the Tanera Beg arch.
Enough to pass under, but not enough to get right through.
The birds are disturbed.
The sandy green depths between T. Beg and Eilean Fada Mor – aka: Caolas na Gainmhich.
Crystal-clear reflections – but always the racket of a boat somewhere. Makes a change from wind, I suppose.
Back towards Badentarbet after a great half-day out.
I notice several beer bottles bobbing around near the pier and sink them. Better that than smashed on a beach. Left last night by some beach campers, I suppose.
As tradition requires, I pass under the prematurely condemned pier. They say the new owner of Tanera Mor (who already has the diggers in), might replace Badentarbet pier with a floating jetty to serve his planned island restaurant. Currently, Old Dornie jetty is twice as far and tide-limited.
On the beach the owner of the cute Salmon Bothy is trying to locate an oystercatcher nest.
With an inexpensive Sevylor barrel pump I was able to get the repaired Semperit up to a good pressure. Ten days passed while I finished my current project, during which time the boat lost no air that I could feel. Over the same period the Seawave was a little soggy all round, as you’d expect with PRVs purging with changing temps. I keep the boats alongside the shadiest north side of the house, but this far north the early morning- and late evening sun still lights it up. In fact, looking at the graphic, above, it’s amazing just how far north the sun comes and goes at this time of year, a month from the solstice. Work out your own angles and azimuths.
Back to the Semperit. With the desk finally cleared, conditions were as good as they ever get up here: hot, sunny and virtually windless – a triple meteorological miracle. I decided to nip over to Horse Island from Badenscallie (bottom of the map, above), still assuming the boat might track poorly and feel saggy. As it was, the Forelle felt much better – as good as you can expect of a 3-psi IK. With just the slight 2 o’clock head-breeze, I was reminded of the technique for skeg-free paddling: simply paddle gently to stay straight. You go a bit slower but in the near-calm conditions it worked, with the odd double pull to bring things back in line.
With spring tide flows peaking, I was too late to pass through the channel between Horse and Meall nan Gabhar, so I clambered up a hill. Looking south to Eilean Dubh and the outer Summers (below), I could have done the full tour in the Seawave. You only get a few days a year like this.
Back at the boat, it seemed a shame just to paddle the mile back to Badenscallie now that it had proven itself. So I set off north around Rubha Dunan. With the ring of mountains from the Torridans (below) up to the Assynt, what an amazing day to be out in a kayak.
On the way back I managed a quick selfie to assess the sag and have to say that’s pretty good considering I’m nine times the weight of this 3.5-m boat. In a ruined croft on Horse I’d spotted a plank bench and thought about pinching it to level out the boat (by sitting on the plank), but in calm waters the fully pumped up Semperit was holding up fine.
It wasn’t all rosy: my old packraft seatpad was leaking from the stem base, and with my reluctance to lean back on the basic rope backrest, I couldn’t relax fully. I ended up sitting on my water shoes (a new pair of Teva Omniums) which gave me nearly enough butt-over-heel elevation for paddling efficiency. The rope could work well enough, but I don’t want to stress the ageing Forelle’s puny seat-mounts. What the boat really needs are a couple of bomb-proof D-rings on top of the sides to take the backrest strain in line (like I did on my old Amigo – left), but as I might be selling the boat, I’ll let the new owner decide what sort of seats they want. Like all IKs, with a higher seat or a small crate, the Forelle could easily be used as a canoe. I know a lot of people like them.
According to the map, Port Mhaire is where I landed. From here a new track led inland to the cafe at Polglass where I dumped the boat under some shady trees and walked back to Badenscallie.
With proper seat support and perhaps an articulated skeg pivoting off the existing rudder mounts, the Semperit would make a nifty boat for calm inshore and lochs, and rivers. But in the Seawave and my Alpacka Yak, I’ve got all the boats I need. It was fun to do up and try out the Semperit, probably the first serious IK from which twin side-tubers like most Grabners, the Incept and Gumotex Seaker can all trace their roots.
No doubt about it; since flogging my much-used Sunny in 2011, followed by a flawed experiment with a Feathecraft Java, I’ve become spoiled by high-pressure IKs like my fast Incept K40 (based on the Forelle’s design), the brick-hard but slower Grabner Amigo and my current lightly modified Seawave. Just 25-60% more pressure makes all the difference, especially once the boat gets usefully long.
I only had my K-Pump Mini to inflate the Forelle after its repair and mods. I’d hand-pumped it up as hard as I dared but was probably a bit too cautious to not over-stress the old trout. Getting in I was reminded of that uninspiring slackrafty squidginess. I should have topped it up after putting in the cold water, but anyway there’s no easy way to accurately check the pressure off lilo plugs (I tried jury-rigging my manometer). Presumably in the 70s the idea of using tough, one-way rafting valves on IKs hadn’t been thought of yet.
In this under-inflated state and with a slight breeze, tracking away from a headwind was tricky, though I knew that new boats require a quickly acquired knack. As expected, the crumpled keel strip didn’t really do much, perhaps that’s why the Forelle 2 came with a rudder mount. As you can see there’s some taco-ing (folding) going on below me – and this was before lunch! Without a skeg or a rudder such sagging won’t help good tracking either.
My over-pressure caution was understandable, but thinking it over, I decided the Semp was under-inflated. What this boat needed was a better pump. A couple of days later a £10 Sevylor stirrup pump turned up (I left my super-duper Bravo kite pump down south) and I whacked in what felt like Sunny pressures. With the position of the lilo tubes tucked under the stern cover, and the need to yank off the hose adaptor while pinching the tube to stop air escaping, and jam in the lilo plug, it’s a bit awkward. These plugs really do grip/seal well.
That’s another great thing with running calibrated PRVs on all chambers: you just pump away until they hiss and the boat is correctly inflated while being protected from over-pressure. No need for manometer faffing.
Inflatable Kayaks & Packrafts 