by Julie Angus
“Hi, baby, it’s me,” he said. His voice was clear but fractionally delayed because of the thousands of kilometres between us.
“Honey, how are you? Is everything all right?” I asked.
“Yeah, I guess so. The only thing is I’m on my own now. Tim and I are taking some time apart and are going to cycle independently to Irkutsk.”
I worried about Colin travelling alone through Siberia. The city of Irkutsk was several thousand kilometres away. Temperatures were still twenty to thirty degrees below zero, and he was cycling on extremely remote roads. I imagined him alone, struggling through a frozen region vaster than all of Canada, and shivered.
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” Colin assured me, “the people around here are friendly and the temperatures are starting to warm up. Things just aren’t working out with Tim and me. I need a break. Hopefully we’ll be able to continue together from Irkutsk.”
After we finished chatting, I couldn’t stop thinking about my boyfriend struggling all alone through Siberia. What if he was mugged or got hit by a truck? Who would contact me? Would it just be a long, endless silence lacking punctuation? I thought back to when Colin had slipped a ring on my finger several weeks before the expedition, asking me if I would marry him. A tear dropped onto the handset that I was still absent-mindedly hanging onto.
Colin had been on several expeditions before this, including rafting both the Amazon and Yenisey rivers from source to sea, as well as extensive offshore sailing adventures. And for as long as I had known him, he had spent every moment preparing for this journey. For more than a decade, it had been his dream to circumnavigate the world entirely by human power—a 42,000 -kilometre journey through seventeen countries that would take an estimated two years. For the last three years, he’d been working full-time on making it a reality. I had helped him prepare and when he began the expedition I continued assisting him with website updates, equipment needs, and route research. Being so closely involved in his expedition had helped me hone many of the skills needed to prepare for my own journey across the Atlantic, and undoubtedly further fuelled my own longing for adventure.
Colin had also had problems finding a suitable partner and, in the end, chose someone he did not know well. He and Tim had completed 8,000 kilometres of their 42,000 -kilometre journey together, but they still had a long way to go. Almost a year before, I had left Vancouver with them, cycling to Hyder, Alaska, before returning to my Vancouver job, while they continued by bike to Whitehorse, Yukon. They then followed the Yukon River by canoe to Fairbanks, Alaska. In Fairbanks, they continued down the rest of the river to the Bering Sea in a specially designed rowboat, and then rowed across the North Pacific to Siberia. Bicycles, skis, and their feet had taken them across Siberia, first together and, now that the conditions were slightly less formidable, separately.
Up to this point, Colin and Tim had focussed all their time, resources, and research on the first half of their expedition—the journey from Vancouver to Moscow. The second, and more difficult, leg of their expedition was still in the infancy stages of planning. The scant sponsorship dollars they had raised had long been spent and Colin had gone through tens of thousands of dollars in personal savings—his bank account was near zero. He didn’t have enough money to buy a rowboat for himself and Tim or time to look for sponsors. Now there was the very real possibility that Tim and Colin would not be able to reconcile, and that Colin would be travelling solo unless he found another travel partner. It was another wrench thrown into a very difficult expedition.
When Cathy told me her decision, I wondered if perhaps this was a fateful sign. I decided to refrain from recruiting any rum-toting Scotsmen for the time being. If Colin and Tim didn’t patch things up, Colin might need to partner with someone else to cross the Atlantic Ocean. I knew this could place undo strain on our relationship, but at the same time, deep inside I couldn’t imagine anyone I would rather share this unique adventure with.
A month later I received an e-mail from Colin, who was now in the southern Siberian city of Irkutsk. He and Tim hadn’t reunited, and their relations had become increasingly acrimonious via cyber-communication. Colin finally told Tim that they simply couldn’t continue together and proposed that they carry on travelling independently and reunite just before Vancouver. It was in no one’s interest for this expedition to turn into a competition.
While Colin was in Irkutsk, we communicated almost exclusively by e-mail because of the expense and complications of using local telephones. Messages flew back and forth as we discussed the possibility of attempting an Atlantic row together. Our big concern was what it could do to our relationship. In civilization we got along wonderfully, but what would happen when we were cooped together for months in a rowboat? The deterioration of Colin and Tim’s friendship in the field was an example that could not be overlooked. We didn’t want to jeopardize our strong relationship at any cost. Ultimately, after much back-and-forth, we decided our relationship would withstand the added stresses of an extended ocean row.
I would join Colin in Moscow and we would cycle 5,000 kilometres through Europe to Lisbon, Portugal. From here we would row across the Atlantic Ocean to North America—most likely Miami—before cycling back to Vancouver. It was an abrupt change from my initial plan of rowing from the Canary Islands to the Caribbean, a 5,000 -kilometre journey. Now I would attempt a 10,000 -kilometre row from mainland to mainland, and be the first woman to do so. Just a few casual e-mails had more than quadrupled the overall length of my journey to a 23,000 -kilometre odyssey.
I felt a little uneasy. It had been hard enough wrapping my mind around a 5,000 -kilometre voyage to the tropics. Now, not only was the row itself twice the distance, but I would be travelling more than halfway around the planet using just a bicycle and a rowboat.
By late May, one month before my departure for Moscow, many daunting tasks remained undone. Since Colin was on the road, I was taking care of pretty much all the logistics for the Atlantic row. Financially things still looked dismal. Colin had exhausted all his savings, and I was still unable to get any financial sponsorship. I had only one month to raise tens of thousands of dollars, purchase a rowboat, and tend to the litany of chores required to row across an ocean. The task of preparing for the ocean row was so great that I didn’t expect to have more than a weekend to plan for our bike ride across Europe. And that was only if I worked full-time on expedition planning, but I also had a day job.
Since finishing my master’s degree in molecular biology five years before, I had worked in the biotechnology industry. Recently, though, I had made a major career change, leaving my job in biotech to work as a consultant. But when I expanded my endeavour from rowing five thousand kilometres across the Atlantic, which would take three months, to rowing twice that distance and cycling another thirteen thousand kilometres from Moscow to Vancouver, which would take a year, I had effectively put my career on hold. I shifted my efforts entirely to expedition preparations. The next few weeks were a whirlwind of activities—finding an appropriate boat, researching the weather patterns for the Atlantic Ocean, ordering a miscellaneous array of required equipment, and continuing the fruitless search for funds.
NOW, SEVERAL MONTHS later, as I gazed at the deep blue ocean from the shores of Portugal, the intense preparations leading up to this moment came back to me in a blur. My mind had been perpetually occupied with logistics, financial troubles, and worries about Colin’s safety. Even after we had united in Moscow I had been overwhelmed with the labour of cycling twelve hours a day, filming our journey, and continuing to coordinate Atlantic logistics from roadside phone booths. Up until this point, I had been so busy getting everything ready that I had little time to ponder the reality of living in a rowboat on a vast ocean.
Cycling across a continent had been an intimidating challenge for a computer-addled, office-bound molecular biologist. Now, with salt spray misting my face and endless blue in fron
t of me, the enormity of the upcoming voyage began to terrify me.
2
ROWBOAT PREPARATIONS
IN LISBON
THE NEXT MORNING we went to the marina to wait for the truck that was delivering our rowboat from the northern tip of Scotland.
I had found the rowboat—a six-year-old boat made specifically for rowing on oceans—for sale on the Internet. The style, a Woodvale Pairs class boat, was designed by two British boat-builders in 1995, and had since proven to be the most popular style of ocean rowboat. It was made from quarter-inch plywood and epoxy—an ideal combination of materials that made the boat both lightweight and relatively strong (the whole boat weighed about 350 kilograms empty and 800 kilograms fully loaded).
The rowboat was just over seven metres, only slightly longer than a two-person ocean kayak, although considerably beamier and deeper. It had two tiny cabins. The forward one (no bigger than a kitchen cupboard) would be for storage, and the aft cabin (about the size of a small closet) would become our living quarters. Sandwiched between the two cabins was an open deck containing two sliding rowing seats positioned in tandem. The below-deck space was divided into many sealed compartments, the rationale being that if one compartment was holed by hitting a reef or an iceberg, the flooding would not spread throughout the boat. I found this comforting until I realized the Titanic had had the same feature. Designed with similar principles to a lifeboat, the Woodvale Pairs boat is also self-righting. Theoretically it can endure horrific weather, flip end-over-end, and still remain afloat.
At Doca de Belém, we reserved a spot for our boat in the marina’s dry-dock compound, and booked their crane to unload our boat.
“I can’t believe the boat is finally arriving,” Colin said, a wide grin plastered on his face, as we emerged from the manager’s office.
It was a huge relief. The boat had been late because of problems with the freight company. But now the Portuguese truck driver rolled back a section of the truck’s roof and unfastened the strapping that secured the boat. A staff member from the marina manoeuvred the yard crane over the truck. The driver slipped two canvas straps under the boat and trailer, and with one fluid motion the unit was transferred out of the truck and onto the concrete pier.
“Maybe you two are a little crazy,” the rotund driver said, “but you have guts.” He clapped me on the back. “My wife and children will not believe me when I tell them what you are doing.” At least that’s what I think he said. He was speaking Portuguese, and I could make out only “crazy” and “wife.”
Once the truck was gone, Colin and I cheerfully pushed the trailer and boat to the spot we had rented in the dry-dock compound.
“You’ve picked a great boat,” Colin beamed, as he explored the interior of the vessel. “It’s well constructed. Good attention to detail. See these hatches? They’re British-made and top of the line. When I was on my sailboat, I could only dream of equipment like this.”
“It was built by professionals,” I said. “The survey showed no structural problems, but there are a few things that need work.”
“No problem, we can do it,” Colin said.
GETTING AN OCEAN rowboat ready for a crossing is a challenging affair. From the research I had done in Vancouver, I learned that preparing for an ocean row usually takes two years and a quarter of a million dollars. And that is for voyages half as long as ours. We had two weeks and dwindling credit limits.
Colin and I left our cheap hotel and moved into a vacant shop at the marina, where the manager kindly allowed us to stay for free. Our new concrete abode became our temporary expedition headquarters, allowing us to store and organize our growing pile of equipment and supplies. Best of all, being a stone’s throw from our vessel allowed us to work from dawn until bedtime on repairs.
We unpacked and inventoried the equipment that had come with the boat: sea anchors, harnesses, a desalination unit, solar panels, and a VHF radio, among other things. Many of the products in the first aid kit had expired or were of dubious integrity, but we found a few useful items, such as shark repellent powder and sutures.
When I had travelled to the north of Scotland to test the rowboat before buying it, I had left a duffle bag full of expedition equipment in the boat. But now, as I peered inside the bag, my heart sank.
“My fleece jacket is gone,” I said with surprise. “So are our rowing gloves, and the Helly Hansen marine shoes. Even the lamb’s wool I packed for making seat covers is missing, and the Santa hat to celebrate Christmas.”
“At least we have our rowboat,” Colin said, trying to console me.
I searched the cabin frantically for the most valuable item I had left on board. Sure enough, my laptop computer was gone. We had planned to use it to send out website updates, communicate with the media, get weather forecasts, and track our GPS position so that people always knew where we were.
“I can imagine why someone would steal a computer, but Christmas decorations and rowing equipment?” Colin said.
There was not much we could do; we didn’t have money to buy another computer, and it was still too early in the season to buy new Christmas decorations.
BEFORE WE DID anything, we made lists—endless to-do lists of chores and equipment. Not only did we need to purchase all the tools and items to repair our boat, but we needed to pack our vessel with every item required for an unsupported three-to-five month journey.
Lisbon, with three marine stores conveniently located near the marina, is well suited to boaters. We became regular customers at each one. We peppered the staff with endless questions. “Can you order a connector cable for our radio?” “Do you sell GPS units?” “Where can we get a diaphragm for our bilge pump?” “When will the antifouling paint come in?” “Where can I find eighty litres of rubbing alcohol for my cookstove?”
At the hardware shops, we filled several shopping carts with fibreglass, resin, screwdrivers, hammers, sandpaper, buckets, and paint. We made so many unusual purchases—at least for tourists—that both our credit cards were automatically suspended multiple times for suspicious activity.
Finally, with a respectable set of the most affordable hand tools we could find, we set about repairing the boat. We scrubbed every inch, inside and out, with soap and steel wool, removing several years of grime and paint in an advanced stage of peeling. We repaired damaged areas with fibreglass strips and polyester resin. We fixed leaky hatches and rebuilt the defunct desalination unit. Beneath the water line we brushed antifouling paint that would supposedly keep our boat free of barnacles, seaweed, and other growth. We sanded and painted the rest of the boat red and white in the colours of the Canadian flag. We even created the outline of the maple leaf using masking tape and red paint. We then used vinyl lettering to display our website address and the boat’s name, Ondine. The name was a tribute to Colin’s first boat, an eight-metre sailboat he bought as a teenager and in which he spent five years exploring the South Pacific.
WHILE WE READIED our boat, Mother Nature graced us with perfect weather. Ocean breezes cooled us while the sun shone from a cloudless sky. Ornamental palms around the dry-dock compound rustled but rarely swayed. Children piloted tiny Sabot sailboats in the water below, while barges and freighters navigated the depths farther out. Though we rushed to and fro, only breaking for quick meals, we appreciated our idyllic, sleepy backdrop. This late summer reverie wasn’t going to last, though. The arrival of fall would inevitably bring degrading weather and heavy southwesterly winds.
We had studied several marine pilot books and were well versed in the prevailing weather patterns. From about April until mid- to late September, the weather off the Portuguese coast is at its best. During this period, the Portuguese trade winds—gentle south-moving winds and currents—create a situation that would be ideal for taking us to the lower latitudes, where we would continue to encounter favourable conditions. From October to March, the weather becomes less stable, and heavy winds from the west and southwest are frequent. Sustained winds fro
m the west would probably overpower our rowing efforts, and our plywood vessel could be wrecked along the numerous cliffs adorning Portugal’s coast. We had to depart before the Portuguese trade winds faltered. It was now already September 15, however—the date we had hoped to leave by. Although things were moving forward steadily, we still had a lot of work to do.
Even if we could travel across the ocean during the ideal time window, we based our weather predictions on recent historical records, and there were signs that change was afoot. Three weeks earlier, Hurricane Katrina had decimated New Orleans. It was the sixth-strongest Atlantic hurricane ever recorded, a category-five hurricane on the Saffir-Simpson scale. According to The Federal Response to Hurricane Katrina, a White House report issued in February 2006, 1,330 people died in the storm, another 2,096 people were still missing five months later, and US$96 billion in damages was caused, making it the costliest hurricane in history. At the time it occurred, we were shocked, not only by the devastation and loss of life, but by what was shaping up to be a very bad hurricane season. Katrina was the eleventh named storm—the average is ten—and the second category-five hurricane that year. Category-five hurricanes occur only about once every three years; only in two other years, 1960 and 1961, did two category-five hurricanes form. We were troubled by this, but even worse, we were only halfway through the hurricane season, and we had no idea what the next three months would hold.
Compared to their predecessors, today’s hurricanes are like steroid-enhanced bodybuilders. The same month that Katrina flexed her muscles, a scientific report in the journal Nature by Massachusetts Institute of Technology meteorology professor Kerry Emanuel, one of Time magazine’s one hundred most influential people, showed that the power of hurricanes has increased nearly 70 per cent since the 1970s. Storms are more intense and last longer. The once-rare monsters, category-four and -five hurricanes with wind speeds over 210 kilometres per hour, are increasingly common; their numbers have doubled in the last thirty-five years. And hurricanes are not only increasing in intensity. In a July 2007 study published by the Royal Society of London, researchers concluded that there are twice as many Atlantic hurricanes now compared to one hundred years ago.