Lionheart

by Jesse Martin

  When I began to plan the trip, my intention was to be the youngest person to sail solo, unassisted and non-stop around the world. But another aim to the trip arose one day unexpectedly.

  Dad told me about an interview he'd heard with internationally acclaimed environmentalist David Suzuki. In the interview he revealed that a swathe of Nobel Prize-winning scientists had signed a declaration, directed at all governments, that the way air pollution was headed, air quality could deteriorate beyond safe levels within two decades. It was a bleak picture he painted, so I decided to tackle the voyage without burning fossil fuels. That is, to only use the power of the wind, through the sails, to propel me along, to harness the wind and sun for power generation, and to use only spirit fuels for cooking and heating. I figured that if I could sail the world without burning any fossil fuel, it would send a message that alternative power was feasible. I did have a diesel motor on board, but used it only as I approached the start line when I left. It was never heard again on the trip.

  I contacted environmental organisations to let them know of my plans and ask if they would like to be a supporter. It was a natural extension of their work, so I was sure they'd want to come along for the ride. I contacted Greenpeace, the environmental activists. They sent me a membership form but were not interested in being involved.

  I then contacted the Australian Conservation Foundation, who were keen. Or so it seemed. We met, and they agreed to get involved. My message to them was, use me! I was going on this trip and it would be a fantastic vehicle for them to get their conservation message across. I wanted them to give me information so I was armed with environmental facts to back up my arguments. It was a one-way street for them. I even had their logo prominently on the sail. All they had to do was supply me with information as I didn't have time to do the research. I wanted them to tell me what it would mean to the environment if every Australian reduced fossil-fuel consumption by a certain amount, and tips on how to cut consumption. I wanted to provide ways of fixing the problem, not just deliver the bad news. I was after the short stuff I could use in interviews. But not a lot happened.

  In the end, I must admit that my trip wasn't pure in environmental terms. Even though I got around the world harnessing non-polluting energy, there was still a lot of waste. The equipment and electronics on board, the poisonous antifouling paint, and the plastic from my prepared meals were all pollutants of some description. I may not have got my environmental message across as I wanted to, but I learnt a lot from the trip. I'll make my next trip more environmentally friendly because I now know you can get around the world by harnessing the power of the sun and wind.

  Before I knew it, Saturday, 5 December, had arrived—the day I left Sassafras to begin my journey. I would stay at Dad's that night. It was Mum's birthday, but that got lost in the hustle of preparation.

  It was not the emotional time you might expect. There was no time for reflection that I was starting my trip, that I might not come back, that I was saying goodbye to the family dog, Roo. It was just another trip to the Yacht Club to get the boat ready. I never sat down with Mum and talked about leaving. There were no goodbyes with Beau or Andrew. It was all very businesslike. But that may have been a good thing. I had no time to get emotional, or contemplate the hard or dangerous times ahead. The thoughts about the trip were to come a few days after, as I sat on Lionheart and suddenly realised what I was doing.

  But there was one special moment I'll never forget. Beau had bought a pair of tiny leather baby shoes at a secondhand shop and wrote on one of them: ‘Jesse, I'm proud to be your brother. Best wishes. Beau.’ One stayed on the fridge at home and the signed shoe sailed with me on Lionheart. The theory was that they would be reunited when I returned.

  I got to the Yacht Club and did some last-minute ordering as some stuff hadn't arrived. I had to cancel one order and run to a local shop to buy wet weather gear. The jacket and pants colours didn't match, but we were beyond worrying about that.

  Everything came together that day. The food came from home to the Yacht Club in a truck, where it was loaded into a shed. As Lionheart was still being worked on, nothing was put on board until that night when, with the help of my friends, I began the task of loading what would turn out to be my life for eleven months on board.

  The sails were taken out of a trailer and onto the boat, where someone attached them to the mast and boom. The welders had only finished that afternoon and the frame they'd been working on was still a little warm. Cartons of milk were stacked along the jetty with wet weather gear, cases full of electronics and piles of other stuff. We wondered whether it would fit. The night went on and on, with only a short break for pizza. But the mood was buoyant. We all knew the amount of work needed to be done but we went on our rushed merry way with the occasional joke or laugh punctuating the packing. No-one, especially me, was thinking about the voyage ahead. We had to make it through the night first! Then we could worry about the challenge of making it around the world.

  I sat back and watched as our usually disjointed family pulled together as one. Mum and Dad had gone through a rough patch while the preparations were underway. After being separated for ten years, they decided to finalise things, which meant they ended up in court wrangling over property during my preparation for the trip. It was not an easy time for anyone. So to watch them passing packages and suggesting ideas was something I really appreciated.

  We worked all night. If you were to see us then, we would have looked like a bunch of zealots working with some sort of religious fervour. I certainly did not have the appearance of the cool adventurer having a good night's sleep before tackling the world.

  We joked, we disagreed, we cursed and we sweated, but most of all, we got the job done.

  At 7.30 a.m. we locked up the boat with 101 things still left to do. Dad and Phil dropped me around the corner at Dad's house to get an hour's sleep while they continued to St Kilda to sail Dad's 24-foot catamaran Bohemian back to Sandringham to follow me out at 10 a.m. I fell on the mattress and closed my eyes. It seemed only minutes until I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was time to go. I downed an extra strong cup of coffee and had a quick shower, then jumped back into the car with Irene, Phil's wife, for the short drive to the Club. I thought about Lionheart as we drove along. I hadn't even laid in my bunk, yet I was about to sail her around the world.

  The car rolled down Jetty Road. It was one of those Melbourne days, when the grey is punctuated by bright sunshine, squally showers and chilly wind gusts. We drove down the hill, rounded a few corners, over some speed humps and through the gate into the carpark. I grabbed an armful of bits and pieces I'd forgotten to put on board the previous night, and headed down the ramp to where Lionheart was moored.

  Everyone was looking at me, which made me feel rather uneasy. I met Mum, Beau, Andrew and Barbara Pesel at the boat and boarded with my armful of goodies. A hand appeared from nowhere and took the items from me. They were put down below while we all spoke about how everything was going, how I was feeling and what the procedure was going to be. I noticed that I knew many of the people standing about—cousins, aunties, uncles, friends and their parents, both grandmas, and staff from the Club. I was handed small gifts by many people, the most ironic one being Jacinta's huge bag of lollies and chocolate.

  My close mates had prepared a bonsai tree by cutting out little figures of each other and writing well-known quotes by that person on them. The little figures were sitting on the branches of the tree at precarious angles. I decided to leave the tree at home—I figured I had enough to worry about in a knockdown without having to think about the possibility of a bonsai plant flying into my skull.

  Dad and Phil turned up in their sailing boots and overalls and got stuck into the last-minute preparation. Little ropes were tied here and there to hold things together or apart, depending on the situation, while young cousins came aboard to see what Lionheart looked like below deck. It was still pretty seat-of-the-pants stuff as far as getting ready wen
t—we really went down to the wire.

  As Mum, Dad and I were being interviewed by the media on the boat about twenty minutes before departure, Phil was tying the brand new sheets—the ropes that held the sails to the deck—for the first time. It was strange sitting there as the cameras and reporters crowded around. They asked me about what I expected to experience, and why I was doing it.

  They asked Mum if she would miss me—'Of course.’ They asked Dad how he felt. Being a man of few words, he was to the point: ‘Buggered.’ We all were.

  I was later told that the reporters had a bit of a problem hearing our answers because a man in the berth next to me decided to start his motors, and wouldn't turn them off despite having been asked politely. Not everyone was a supporter, it seemed.

  Suddenly, the time to leave arrived. If I was to make the slack water at the Heads that afternoon I had to give myself six hours to sail down there, so 10 a.m. was my strict departure time.

  The flurry of preparation around me ground to a halt. Jobs had to be left undone and people started stepping off the boat onto the landing. A drum of diesel was left in the cockpit because there wasn't time to pour it into the tanks. I had to carry the fuel in case I needed to use the motor in an emergency, although I had no intention of touching the ignition of the motor the moment I got through the Heads. As it turned out, the key snapped off in the ignition during the trip, so I couldn't start it anyway. I didn't exactly know what I was going to do with an empty drum after I'd poured the fuel into the tanks.

  Time felt like it was in fast forward at that moment. Five months of frantic preparation and I was about to be cast out on my own. We hadn't tested a single thing, which increased the probability of something going wrong. And it was my first time at the helm since we'd done all the work on it. Mum gave me a teary bear hug which I blame for my occasional sore back before making her way with friends and family to Ophelia, the Mistral boat that was taking the media out to see me off.

  I started the motor and began to organise the cockpit area. I gave a few waves and noticed one friend, Ben, standing alone in the crowd which had built to about 350. He must have missed the others, who were on board Ophelia. I gave him a yell to come with me. He shuffled through the crowd and jumped on board as I pushed the gear into reverse. Some men undid the lines holding me to the jetty. Apparently many people were shocked to see someone else jump aboard, as they did not realise I'd start the solo attempt at the Port Phillip Heads.

  With minimal revs I drifted backwards and turned before slipping the gear into forward and gliding away over the flat water of the breakwater, thankful I hadn't collided with another craft in front of so many people and the television cameras. People were cheering and I vaguely remember a gun going off, but there was so much happening I can't be sure. I do remember passing the breakwater and into a few waves, where I began to raise the mainsail for the very first time. With the mainsail up, I cut the motor and pulled out a bit of the front sail on the furler, a system that took in and let out the genoa. The wind was from the south at about 15 knots. I was suddenly enveloped by the sounds of sailing as I cut the motor. It was probably the quietest environment I'd been in since I got back from Tahiti.

  I sat talking to Ben and waved to those aboard Ophelia as it cruised beside me, the television and press cameras pointing my way. Despite the attention, Ben and I spoke about normal stuff like what parties were on that weekend and how he was going to go at school the next year. The fact that I was embarking on a journey that could take the best part of a year wasn't broached. Neither was the fact we may never see each other again. I don't think I could have become emotional anyway, as I was still pumped full of strong coffee and adrenalin.

  I put the thought of the trip to the back of my mind and enjoyed the sun, which was starting to peek through the overcast sky. There was also the buzz of the media and the half a dozen or so boats around us. After about half an hour the boats began heading back, and Ben and I began wondering how he'd get back to the Yacht Club. I sure as hell wasn't going to turn around to take him back, and there wasn't enough food or room for him to come around the world. I radioed Ophelia, but she was way too big to come alongside to collect Ben. They said another boat would be out shortly.

  It was soon time for Ophelia to turn back. I looked over to see Mum for the last time. She was yelling, ‘Put your harness on’, and waving frantically. All the emotion of the past few months had overtaken her, but she was so proud of what I was doing. I know that at that moment she thought it could be the last time she ever saw me. That must have been hard for her.

  Ben and I were then left alone, as we headed further and further down Port Phillip Bay. A small dot on the horizon turned out to be Dad, Phil and Ray on Bohemian. They'd been waylaid by the media. Ben and I watched as they battled the waves to get to us. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, a small dinghy appeared. Like magic, this bloke had turned up to collect Ben.

  ‘Goodbye and good luck,’ we said to each other, as Ben had his own challenge ahead with VCE. With a skilful leap, Ben landed in the dinghy, and for the first time I was on my own aboard Lionheart. It still hadn't hit me yet.

  The overcast skies parted and the sun appeared more frequently the closer we got to the Heads. Dad arrived, and we plodded on towards our goal. The starting line was drawn between Point Lonsdale and Point Nepean. The lighthouse keeper at Point Lonsdale was the official time observer who would watch me pass the line and tell the World Sailing Speed Record Council my exact starting time.

  I wasn't able to find a lanyard that attached my safety harness to the boat, so Dad threw me one of his. As the afternoon wore on I spent the time opening presents and eating most of them. We got to the centre of the Bay and the markers of the West Channel. The wind was still a southerly, which caused problems when I entered the channel heading south. I was forced to tack back and forth in the narrow confines of the channels in order to make any headway. Each time I tacked I wasted time as I wasn't used to the sails and the new rig with two inner forestays. It was getting later and later, and our fear of missing the right tide started to grow. Going into the waves slowed me down considerably.

  I soon realised this would be a way of life for the next nine months. To make the most efficient progress I had to point as close to the wind as possible, at about 45 degrees. I was pounding into the waves and sending spray right over the bimini, the canopy that covered the cockpit and entrance to the cabin. The excitement of the last few days and the sleepless night was catching up with me. As John Hill said, getting out of Melbourne is a bastard at the best of times, let alone when you are exhausted.

  With a bit of water sloshing up and over the deck the leaks started to occur. I first noticed it when I went down below to get my wet weather jacket. The heat-sealed bags of food were covered in water.

  One of my goals was to keep everything as dry as possible, especially my stores. And there I was, not even over the starting line, and I was bloody leaking. Field trials would have sorted this sort of problem out, I thought to myself. Through a gap in the bags I saw one to two centimetres of water sloshing across the shelf each time the boat leant to one side. This was not the start I wanted.

  I radioed Dad and told him about the problem, then dropped sail and floated while I went on to the foredeck to check the anchor well, as Dad had suggested. Sure enough, it was full of water, causing an overflow that was somehow finding its way into the cabin. Dad pulled alongside and leapt from the moving Bohemian on board to have a look at the problem. I started clearing away the chain and anchor rope from the drain, which was obviously blocked, while Dad went below and got a length of threaded rod that was lying about, like most things in Lionheart that day. He poked it into the blocked escape hose and the water started to clear from the hatch. This had taken nearly an hour from the moment I discovered the water.

  I was still 15 to 20 miles from the Heads. If I made a dash for it, I might have made it, but I could also have been thrown against the rocks as the water b
egan to flow through the Heads once again. I'd missed my chance. The only safe thing to do was to drop anchor and wait until morning, or head to shore and rest overnight before striking out the next day. We decided to head to Sorrento and stay the night there. It was one of the best decisions I made on the entire trip. Ironically, it was water leaking onto his radio that forced David Dicks to abort his first attempt to leave. Luckily, I found the fault before I passed through the Heads.

  After all the previous day's rushing about and attention from the media that morning, it was a relief to finally take a break and leave when I was ready. It was a beautiful afternoon; the clouds had cleared and we made the short trip to Sorrento in only half an hour. Everyone was so exhausted. After helping me tie up to the main jetty just behind Bohemian, we decided to clean up and grab a bite to eat. We'd worry about drying the food in the morning. This sounded like a great idea to me. I had a second chance to really say goodbye the way I wanted, without the media looking on.

  Dad, Phil, Ray and I hiked up the hill to the main street of Sorrento and ordered a special meal of mussels in a tomato sauce and salad. It felt so good to relax with some of the people who had made the trip happen and to finally share a decent meal with them the way I'd always wanted to. Every other meal we'd had the last few months was takeaway in the shadow of Lionheart as we sat in the boat yard.

  It got dark as we unwound and chatted and ordered a second serving. Dad happened to meet a man in the restaurant who owned the local Baker's Delight that Dad had done some work for. He invited us back to his house for a shower and clean-up. Did we need it! One after the other, we took turns and appreciated the simple luxury of a shower. All I could think was, this was the last shower rose I'd see for a long time.