Lionheart

by Jesse Martin

  I was in absolute agony for a few minutes as I closed my eyes and tried to control the pain. My whole leg ached for the rest of the day so I wrapped a bandage around it. I don't know if it really did it much good but it looked all right as I sat in bed admiring my first injury of the voyage.

  The light winds continued throughout Saturday night as I approached the bottom of Tasmania, wondering what kind of mischief my mates were getting up to.

  Sunday, December 13

  Woke up last night and thought that Dad and Phil were on the boat fixing something so I didn't get up to check our course. This happened a couple of nights ago as well when I thought that a photographer was taking a photo and I was standing by my bunk waiting for him to finish. I ended up getting into my bunk the wrong way.

  Sleep-walking was a real concern for me. I have been known to do some strange things in my sleep including the usual snoring, walking and the uncanny ability to speak Chinese perfectly. It had crossed my mind that I could accidentally fall overboard on one of my midnight tours of the boat, but there wasn't really much that I could do about it. I never actually caught myself sleep-walking but then again, who knows what I got up to.

  Once I was confident in operating the email system it became the thing I looked forward to the most. I got my first proper weather report on email from Mum, who received it from Roger Badham, probably Australia's best known yachting meteorologist. Roger had previously done weather routing for the America's Cup team and advised Kay Cottee on her solo trip back in 1988, so he knew what he was talking about. I would email him with my daily position, weather conditions, course and speed, and Roger would send a four-day report each morning for Mum to pass on to me. It worked excellently for the whole voyage. The reports gave me peace of mind when I went to sleep each night. My boat wasn't fast enough to get out of the way of the incoming rough weather, but just knowing generally what to expect was a huge comfort.

  Those initial days allowed me to repack a lot of gear and get used to the way Lionheart behaved. I soon found where to jam the opened carton of milk to prevent it from spilling and where not to leave a cup that was full. I started hanging the tea-towel through the grab rail leading out into the cockpit. Other little habits like this soon developed.

  Sunday, December 13

  Just spoke to fishing boat Zylathene on VHF. They wanted to know what a yacht was doing around this neck of the woods. Told them. They wished me luck. Lost a bucket today when leaning overboard trying to scoop up some water. Better be careful as I've only got four left.

  I awoke on the morning of the 14th feeling positive and happy about how the trip was going. It was kind of overcast and I wasn't moving much, so to keep my energy and confidence levels up I whacked on the Simon & Garfunkel ‘Concert in Central Park’ album and sang along as loud as I could.

  I kept myself busy looking for the damper mix I asked Mum to buy, and read the instructions in the cockpit about how to mix the ingredients. Time flew by when my attention was held by some kind of challenge. I really got stuck into getting the measurements right and the water the correct temperature. I kneaded the mixture for ages to get an even consistency and cut the scone-shaped rolls into exact replicas of each other. I then lit the grill under the metho stove for the first time and carefully placed the damper under the flame. I stood in the cockpit to stretch my back from all the crouching I'd been doing and looked around at the flat ocean. I wasn't moving much, but at least I had some damper on the go.

  Monday, December 14

  Got ropes out of the way and oiled the wind vane. Sustagen tastes disgusting! Won't drink it, will settle for lovely cool milk. Hair and clothes need a wash. Am wearing hat to get rid of hair. Feeling more confident about the trip every day even though today is dull.

  The psychological effects of not moving in a forward direction were tremendous. I looked at it as wasted time. I may as well have not been eating and wasting food or reading and wasting valuable words. It made my existence seem unworthy. When I was moving, I felt needed. I had to be aware of changes in the wind direction and strength, and was always on call for whatever the boat needed, which gave me some sense of value and meaning. My mood would go up and down as the wind picked up then died again.

  Monday, December 14, 7.05 p.m.

  Wind has died to nothing again and I am bloody annoyed! Mainsail is slapping and doing constant unseen damage. Took main down before but the boat rolls too much in the swell so I put it back up. Fresh water tastes like it has salt in it. Will have to sort out water problems soon! Things not going the right way lately.

  The sound of a mainsail whipping against the mast and rigging with the roll of a swell is as bad as the sound of a gale to a sailor's ears. Particularly in the middle of the night as they lie in their bunk. It makes a sailor cringe every five seconds as they wait in anticipation for the shrouds to buzz with the vibrations that are slowly, but surely, causing stress fractures throughout the stainless steel rigging. This slapping sound had the same impact on my senses as hearing a fist come into contact with a face during a fight. It just isn't nice, because we all know something is being broken.

  The anger that used to build up in me when there wasn't much wind nearly drove me crazy, simply because of the constant responsibility for the boat. By this I mean the decision of whether to leave the sail up or to take it down. Both ways had their disadvantages. By leaving the sail up I had a constant reminder of the damage I was doing to the rig, not knowing whether the shrouds and stays that held the mast up would handle the next gale.

  The obvious alternative was to take the sail down altogether, but this had its negatives. Without the sail up, the boat would roll around in the ever-present swell. This constant rolling from side to side, which didn't happen while sailing, would dislodge small irritating things around the boat, such as a fork which would find its way into the sink and make a terrible sliding sound across the steel with each lurch of the hull. Multiply this by ten or twenty other clinking, thudding, scraping and tapping noises, and I soon had an orchestra aboard that wouldn't let up. Once the fork was put back where it came from, another small item would free itself and take its place.

  Besides the noise keeping me awake, there was also the movement. Lying on my bunk, I was thrown about from side to side. If I was to sleep on my side with my face against the mattress, the motion would roll me onto my back then roll me onto my side again every five seconds. I felt like one of those clown faces at the Show with their mouths open. If the rolling was consistent then you could well imagine being able to get used to the noise and movement, but that wasn't the case. The swell would start by moving the boat only slightly, then the next wave would add to the movement. Each wave would build the sway, until the gunwales were about ten centimetres from dipping under the water line. Then, suddenly, the timing of the rolling and the waves would miss a beat and cancel all movement. The boat would almost be dead still. It was incredibly annoying. The timing between the swaying waves allowed just enough time for me to nod off to sleep, only for it to start all over again and wake me.

  It was similar to that sensation on a train or in the classroom. I'd be on the verge of getting to sleep when my head and body would jolt. I'd find myself rolling onto my back, nearly crying in frustration at not being able to get to sleep. At least I didn't have strangers peering at me like I was a freak and having to wipe the little bit of spittle from the side of my mouth. But I couldn't hop off at the next station. I was in this for the long run. That was the hardest aspect to handle. There was just no escape from this mild form of torture.

  The frustration was accentuated by having to decide whether to leave the sail up or take it down. I was able to sleep better when the sail was up (there was less rolling) but sometimes the guilt of leaving it up was too overpowering and I'd take it down. If I took the option of a good night's rest then I sure paid for it during a gale when I wondered how strong the rig was. It's kind of a rule of life—take the easy road and pay for it later. But then, it's
a fine line between being fastidious and living a comfortable existence. I had no idea where that line lay, and, in many ways, that was a dark cloud that hung over the trip. Was I being disciplined enough? Only time would tell.

  The other issue on my mind was a growing freshwater problem. I had two tanks, one under the seat on each side, which held about 100 litres each. They were connected by hoses to the hand pump over the sink which I used for all my fresh water. I hadn't been at sea for a fortnight and already I was pumping out brackish water from the tanks. I was seriously worried about this. Overall, I had 200 litres in the tanks and another 250 litres in plastic jerry cans. I decided to use the water from the tap for cooking only, and milk for drinking until the problem sorted itself out or I was forced to find the problem.

  Tuesday, December 15, 7.55 p.m.

  Just went on a huge cleaning and rearranging spree. It started when I went looking for the baby wipes and just kept going until I rearranged the whole kitchen area. I didn't find the baby wipes though! Pulled genoa in a while ago. No wind at all. Sail isn't even slapping. At least I've got that in my favour! Will get report from Roger tonight when I call Mum and Andrew. Also worked out video camera mounting on back rail and got up to chapter 11 in the Hobbit. Busy day!

  Wednesday, December 16, 9.05 a.m.

  Woke up to sunshine and wind. Pulled the genoa out and set my course for about 150°. Finally we are moving at 6 knots. Whooo hooooo!

  On sunny days like that I liked nothing better than to sit out in the cockpit with something to eat and drink and just watch the boat sail along. I was still getting used to the way Lionheart sailed and the best ways to handle her.

  The first aspect I had to get used to was tacking the boat. Because of the twin inner forestays I couldn't just turn through the eye of the wind and expect the sail to easily blow to the other side, as the forestays would prevent this happening. I had to furl the genoa up until there was almost no sail out, then tack, and when the wind was side on again I could unfurl it. The wind stayed good on the 16th and I was able to make good headway in the right direction.

  Wednesday, December 16, 7.55 p.m.

  There is a low about 250 miles east of Tassie with a strong wind warning. Doesn't affect me yet but I'm going to run into bad weather soon enough. Want to get it out of the way cos it is bugging me. Want to see how big the waves actually get. Above all, I'm not looking forward to a wet cabin. Will go to any length to keep it dry! Will call Dad and Mum and Andrew tonight and find out what is going on.

  Wednesday, December 16, 11.05 p.m.

  Got email from Mum. Roger says to stay at 47°S and no further than 150°E cos there is some very rough weather at the bottom of New Zealand over the next three days. Will keep heading south and should be at 47° in the morning then will head east. Looking forward to Chrissie presents!

  With Roger's reports, I was also listening to the forecasts over the high frequency radio. I found them a bit hard to understand as the operator spoke so fast with lots of positions in latitude and longitude that went straight over my head, but I got a general idea of what was happening.

  I used to leave the radio on the emergency calling channel to keep watch for any vessels in distress that were sending out Pan Pans, which were calls for assistance, or Maydays, which were reserved for the really dire stuff. Melbourne Radio would come up on this channel every so often to let people know they were doing a weather report and to change to the frequency they transmitted on. They would start with warnings about dredging vessels about the coast of Tasmania, then go into the weather report and end with the radio telephone call traffic list. Quite often there was traffic waiting for Lionheart Victor Hotel Alpha India. I'd feel a tingle of excitement when they called my name and immediately flick over to the Sydney Radio frequency to try to make contact.

  ‘Sydney Radio, Sydney Radio, this is Lionheart Victor Hotel Alpha India.’

  If the atmospheric conditions weren't very good at that particular time I'd try a few more times without reply, then I'd try another more powerful frequency until an operator came back to me.

  ‘Lionheart, Lionheart, Victor Hotel Alpha India, this is Sydney Radio, How's it going there, Jesse?’

  ‘Roger, no problems here. Wind is still pretty light but apparently there's a low heading this way, over.’

  ‘That's a Roger, Jesse, that's a Roger. What can I do for you tonight?’

  Sometimes I'd just call up to report my position for safety reasons but more often than not it was to either receive or make a radio phone call.

  ‘I believe there's some phone traffic waiting for me, over.’

  ‘That's right. Two calls. One from a Mrs Raisin, who booked a couple of hours ago and the other from a Mr Gary Jamieson.’

  ‘Roger that. I'll take the one from my grandma first, thanks.’

  ‘OK, I'm connecting you through now.’

  The next thing I'd hear would be Gran's voice.

  Because the HF radio waves bounce between the outer atmosphere and the water, the time of day and the sun's effect on the atmosphere made all the difference to the radio reception. Most times I'd get through to Sydney Radio about an hour after it got dark up until a couple of hours before it got light again, but during the day I got nothing at all.

  There was also quite a skill involved in calling the operators. Because there were only about four frequencies that could be used to contact them, a lot of the time the Korean fishing boats in the Pacific were on every channel talking to their wives and kids. And they tended to go on a bit, up to an hour sometimes. I had to keep surfing the frequencies to find a call I reckoned was finishing—a bit hard when the person was speaking Korean. When I sensed a conversation was coming to an end I'd get ready with my microphone in hand and as soon as the Sydney operator told the fisherman how long he had spoken and how much it cost, I'd jump in before the other boats got a chance. I'd yell out quite loudly, hoping that the operator heard me and answered my call. It all depended on the strength of my signal whether I would get to the operator. I often had to wait for several calls before I got through or try a couple of hours later.

  Thursday, December 17, 5.35 p.m.

  It's getting colder and colder. Every now and then I light the metho burner to warm up the cabin a bit. Felt a bit sick earlier on today and very tired so I took a nap. Feel a bit better now. Changed sleeping ends so I could hear radar and wind alarms at chart table better. The low east of Tassie hasn't moved yet but I think I am going to have to start heading east more. I am already at 47°23'S and 20 miles away from 150°E. Will see what Roger says tonight.

  7.30 p.m.

  Just heard a Mayday relay from New Zealand land station Zulu Lima Mike for a yacht sighted upturned at position 32°34'S, 171°54'E. Vessels 50 nautical miles away from area are requested to detour to look (that's not me).

  8.35 p.m.

  Just spoke to Mum and Andrew but Dad wasn't home. She told me about the war which has just started between America and Iraq again. There may be more shipping and armed forces around my area. I hate it when I hear there is a war! Why can't people be conscientious objectors instead of going to war?

  Friday, December 18, 2.25 p.m.

  Wind died again at two this morning. Still no wind. What the hell is going on? Did washing today with water caught from last night. Also worked out water pump pressure problem and took the new filter out. Now it works like normal. Stabbed my finger in the process. Started bleeding badly. When I saw the blood I nearly fainted. Sipped water until I was with it again, then put butterfly tape on. First proper medical crisis overcome.

  The next morning I got my first proper fright. I was up at 6.30 a.m. for an interview with Steve Liebmann on the Today show over the satellite phone. The battery kept running out so after I did the interview I put the phone in its waterproof case. As I was doing that, I heard a strange noise I'd never heard before. The weather wasn't very good, with a stiff wind and a bit of spray flying about. I leant back on my bunk and looked out the porthol
e to where the noise was coming from. At first I couldn't see anything but overcast skies. Then, as the boat rolled to one side, the base of the baby forestay swung out over the side of the boat and into view.

  OH NO! The baby forestay had come apart from its join at the deck, meaning there was one less stay holding up the mast. All my paranoia about being too hard on the rig came flooding back to me as I got into some wet weather gear and harnessed up. I rushed out through the companionway after removing the washboards and clipped on the lifeline before making my way to the foredeck while running possible solutions through my head about how I'd fix the problem.

  There I was, not even two weeks into the trip, and I'd pushed the boat so much that a stay had already broken. How much more disciplined did I have to be to get this baby around the world with the mast still standing? I held on to one of the side shrouds and lunged at the swinging stay as it passed by. I quickly inspected the end of it, comparing it to the plate on the deck. I then let loose a huge sigh of relief. It was only the quick release mechanism that had come undone, probably by a flicking line slowly undoing the tape holding the lever in position.

  Phew! A burden lifted from my conscience. Just maybe I was actually treating the boat with the care it needed. But in the back of my mind was always the niggling thought that maybe I wasn't. I may have been relieved by what had happened, but with the onset of the overcast weather, I wasn't to stay happy for too long.