by Jesse Martin
Monday, December 21, 10.35 a.m.
I went back to sleep until now. Wind has died again. From 30 to 10 knots, just like that. I am rolling like anything, and it's bloody getting on my nerves. Couldn't be bothered pulling more sail out, will wait to see if it's constant. Cabin is wet on the ground and leaks above navigation table and galley make it uncomfortable. Put burner on to keep warm. Now it's raining.
11.35 a.m.
I hope something happens to the boat so I can go home.
12.35 p.m.
Cooked mushroom pilaf. Tastes as shit as I feel! Don't feel like doing anything. Just want to sleep and dream. To dream of being away from here. There is meant to be a strong front not far from here but no sign of it. I'll be damned if I know how these weather systems work. Nothing turns out how it's meant to!
That night the wind picked up again to 25 knots and continued onto the next day. I was heading almost due north because of the wind direction and wave angle.
Tuesday, December 22, 12.10 p.m.
Not a cloud in the sky. Feel shitty again. Always feel like this in the morning. Cabin area got wet again last night. I hate it wet. I hate the whole trip so far. I just want to go home. There is nothing out here, just water and water. Feel very lethargic. Lots of dishes need doing and the cabin needs to be tidied up but it makes it hard when the cabin is wet and I couldn't be bothered. Rang Hayley last night. She's getting email soon so then we can write.
12.30 p.m.
Just got half knocked down. Boat came to a standstill when a wave broke onto me. No big deal.
8.10 p.m.
Spent most of the day in bed with a headache. Was heading north but couldn't be bothered fixing it. Got out of bed an hour ago to correct course and cook tea. Still not perfect angle (northeast) but much better. Easier on boat, backstay doesn't vibrate. Feel terrible today. Want to go home. Have been imagining my self getting rescued so I can go home! Still 25 knots and waves are getting bigger. No problem, although not very comfortable. Wonder if Mum will call tonight. She didn't last night, I called her. Email is waiting but too wet to fiddle about with computer.
That night, just as I was stepping into bed, I had another half knockdown. A freak wave hit Lionheart in the wrong position, sending water squirting under the forward hatch as well as the usual places above the navigation table and galley area. It was over that quickly I didn't have time to be scared, but I really wasn't in the mood for it. The next morning, the 23rd, dawned with a nice 10-knot wind. After a good sleep I felt much better.
Wednesday, December 23, 6.10 p.m.
Weather has been good. Managed to sit outside in the sun in the cockpit for a while then cleaned up kitchen and did dishes. Cooked damper and am waiting to eat. Has turned out a nice day even though I couldn't get the computer working.
8.50 p.m.
So peaceful out here (except for Queen blasting through the speakers). Watched the sunset with a cold drink while thinking. I feel so much better today. Not sure if it can depend so much on the conditions. Roger says it will be like this for a few days. Good! Was thinking as I watched the sun go down that I'd rather be out with mates but then thought of what I'd be doing. Hoping to see Hayley but going home disappointed. Here I have such peace, sunset, calm conditions with a chill in the air that makes you feel alive. I am grateful, but not looking forward to the next front.
I hit my strongest winds of the trip so far at 30 knots. There was a bit of spray flying about and the cabin got wet, but by no stretch of the imagination was it dangerous. Though it was the strongest stuff I'd encountered to date, I wasn't overly worried by the conditions. I knew very well that I was in for much worse than a 30-knot front, but the combination of getting used to my new way of life, the homesickness and the uncomfortable conditions all played a part in the way I was feeling.
From the moment I left Port Phillip Bay I said to myself that I wasn't leaving home and getting further away from it, but rather that I was on my way home. Every mile forward was one mile closer to seeing the people I loved. It was a nice ideal, and it calmed Mum down a bit, but in practical terms it didn't work that way. All I could see on the chart was my position getting further and further away from Australia, so it was difficult to think I was actually getting closer.
In fact, the trip was a series of stages, with the completion of each a major milestone and psychological fillip. The first was the stretch from Australia to New Zealand, the next from New Zealand across the Pacific to Cape Horn. From there the next segment was to the halfway mark at the Azores Islands, followed by the stage down to the Cape of Good Hope. The final leg was from the tip of Africa to home. As much as I liked to think I was heading home, I was really heading to the end of the stage I was currently in.
Apart from the radio operators, with whom I had short conversations, and the odd journalist booking a call, the only other people I spoke to were Mum, Andrew, Dad, Gran and a guy named Gary who preferred to be called Gazbo.
When Gazbo first told me his name, I thought he said Casper, so that was what I called him until I embarrassingly realised my error. He lived in Brisbane and I heard from him every couple of weeks, right up until I lost radio contact with Sydney near Cape Horn. We'd talk for quite a while and I got to know a fair bit about him, such as he never wore shoes when flying on planes, he owned two restaurants and spent most of his time scuba-diving and sailing. He was planning a trip on his boat to Tahiti with one of his mates. Oh, and he never got out of bed until after midday. I knew the trip would be educational.
Thursday, December 24, 12.05 p.m.
Had a good sleep. Conditions are the same. Making good ground. Had spaghetti bolognaise for breakfast. Beautiful!
Email soon became the one thing I looked forward to. My friends were on holidays and every email from them took me straight back home to what they were doing. It was a real escape for me, like dreaming in my sleep. The email system, known as Satcom C, worked through satellites orbiting the earth. It gave me coverage wherever I was. I was able to send mail to any email address around the world but people sending to me had to be registered with Telstra as they would be charged about one cent per character to send a message. Only a few of my friends could afford to be registered. Those who weren't sent their emails to Barbara's office, where she took out all the spaces between the words, then sent them on to me. Mistral thankfully picked up this bill. I got those small messages about twice a week. I looked forward to them so much that I'd count the days down until the new lot was due to arrive.
I developed a habit of glancing at the little black box under the switchboard that stored the messages every time I passed the navigation table. I was looking for the little orange LED light that indicated an email had arrived.
I became so obsessed I caught myself glancing at the unit every five seconds. I'd be reading a book and peer over the top of the book several times per page. I often imagined the light was flashing when it wasn't, and had to get closer to see for sure. It was obvious I was beginning to live for email.
Satcom C Message
Subject: Monkey Boy
Date: 20 Dec
From: Paul Ryan
Hi Jesse,
Thanks for your reply! I wonder what metho-flavoured damper tastes like?
The papers like to exaggerate and bend the facts don't they? ‘Big Wave puts Teen in Agony’.
Did banging your shin hurt as much as stubbing your toe on a cold day? That kills. (I usually let out a silent scream!) Guess wot? Davo and Darren got their names in the paper for good VCE results!
Write back or I‘ll . . . Err . . . Urn .. . Well, I'll think of something!
Paul
Subject: Message from Inmarsat-C mobile
Date: 21 Dec
To: Paul Ryan
Hi Paul,
At the moment there is no wind and it is driving me crazy I was just outside swearing my head off at the (lack) of wind and decided to check for emails. Thanks for calming me down (I may have done some damage otherwise).
Might give you a call over the radio.
See ya,
Jesse
Christmas day was a good day for me. There wasn't much wind and not a cloud in the sky. I sat out in the cockpit opening my presents while waiting for a conference call with Mum and a television station—it was strange wishing my family a merry Christmas on the evening news. I spoke to everyone—Mum, Andrew, Beau, Gran and all my cousins. It left me with a good feeling, not let down by the fact I was not there, as I thought I may have been.
Most of the presents were edible and there were not many of them left by Boxing Day. I also got a few strange things such as colour pencils and a toy car, which I had to store upside down to stop it sliding all over the place. Mum later told me the circumstances in which she did her Christmas shopping—at 4 a.m. the day I left—which also explained the wrapping. It was a nice calm day, so I spread out in the sun and dreamt about everyone at home stuffing themselves with food.
Boxing Day was a different matter. When Lionheart was sailing up the Bay, Dad noticed how low the bow was in the water. The night we stayed in Sorrento, Dad suggested that when I got some time I should move some of the weight from the front V-berth of the boat to the back to prevent my nose diving in bad weather. So I got to work moving one-litre cartons of milk from one end of the cabin to the other and storing them neatly under the sink and galley area. I approached the task with the enthusiasm of someone who had decided to dedicate their life's work to moving milk cartons.
Saturday, December 26
Felt better this afternoon when I was working. I now believe it is a combination of weather conditions and if I am busy or not. When I get up in the mornings I'll set myself a goal to complete that day. I'm just worried I'll run out of things to do! While cleaning found more Christmas presents!
Wow! Christmas again! It's like finding the last Tic Tac jammed under the lid that you didn't know you had left.
I was only a day away from New Zealand and was in communication with the cray fishing vessel Aurora, which Mum had contacted and organised to pick up my rubbish and film. The rules of the trip permitted me to hand stuff off the boat, such as rubbish, but take nothing on board. I was allowed to take on mail at the halfway mark, but this had to be inspected by an official to ensure it contained nothing that could actually assist me in any way.
Sunday, December 27
Have decided not to worry about the rough weather I will no doubt encounter but rather enjoy the calm that I have now and remember the blows should pass within a day or two. Sometimes I think this is all too easy and that my imagination has built the trip into something it's not but other times I am quite apprehensive, mainly cos I haven't been in much rough weather yet!
When I embarked on this trip, I knew I had to overcome two major hurdles. The first was crossing the start line. The moment I did that, I entered a contract with myself that I could not break—I had no choice but to finish the trip once I started it.
The second hurdle would be the weather. The strongest winds I'd ever been in, on the Belize trip, were 25 knots. I'd already hit that, so I knew I could handle rougher conditions. Although I was on my own I was confident in my ability to handle anything. But I knew I was going to get much stronger winds, and it really started to play on my mind. When would they come? How would the boat handle it? How would I react? I now know that the anticipation of an event is usually much worse than the event itself.
I was at Southwest Cape, on the southern New Zealand island of Stewart Island. Getting there had taken me longer than I expected when I set out, due to the incredibly calm weather across the Tasman. I only averaged 75 nautical miles a day, when I should have been doing more than 100 miles.
Southwest Cape was one of the five southern capes I had to round for the circumnavigation. In fact, less than a month into the trip and I'd already rounded two of the capes—Tasmania and New Zealand.
The wind characteristically died and I inched my way towards the island. I can't remember seeing coastline for the first time. It mustn't have meant that much to me. I was, however, pretty excited about the rendezvous with the fishing boat. Most of all I was looking forward to actually coming face to face with humans. I maintained radio contact with Aurora throughout the day.
Late that afternoon, as I swayed from side to side with no wind, I spotted a white boat on the horizon heading straight for me. I grabbed the video camera and filmed its approach. I hadn't had much to film up to then. Soon the Aurora was alongside. I can't remember much of the conversation as I threw them my bags of rubbish. I was offered a can of beer that I couldn't accept.
The skipper, Colin Hopkins, suggested I should have a copy of the latest weather forecast, which he had on board.
Again, I politely refused.
‘Go on, you can read it, then eat it to get rid of the evidence,’ he urged.
One of the crew, a big Maori man, asked in a heavy New Zealand accent, ‘Where have you come from?’
‘Melbourne,’ I yelled back.
He had a bit of a chuckle. ‘Boy, you've got a hell of a long way still to go.’
They circled the boat, taking photos of the strange boy with a long way to go, before wishing me all the best and heading off to pick up some cray pots.
I didn't like what he said, but it was true. I still had a hell of a long way to go!
CHAPTER 6
On to Everest: New Zealand to Cape Horn
I was hit by one of the worst cases of ‘Sunday afternoon feeling’ I'd ever experienced. You know, that feeling when the weekend is coming to an end and the dread of school or work starts to build. At home, I'd counter the depression by losing myself in the plot of a movie. Out at sea, it was not that simple. I had no company or distractions like television.
It was an incredible feeling that I blamed on seeing the Aurora crew. I was so excited about seeing other humans that I hadn't prepared myself for the letdown when they departed. In a way, I wished I'd never seen them. The boost I'd received did not match the depression of losing touch again.
The sun was dropping towards the horizon and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I wallowed in my depression, until the wind picked up and I was able to set sail again and keep moving in a southeasterly direction, keeping enough distance between land and me. I made contact with Sydney Radio that night and put a call through to Dad. The radio officer told me about the terrible time the Sydney to Hobart race fleet was having with gusts up to 80 knots, a Mayday currently in process and lots of boats out of the race. I looked out a porthole and wondered how this sedate sea could get in such a state.
I got past Stewart Island and continued for the next few days on a path between 47° and 48°S. I spent time thinking about how to handle an 80-knot blow. That was simply incredible. I later heard six people had lost their lives. Fortunately, none of the weather affecting the Sydney to Hobart race reached me.
I got over my ‘Sunday afternoon downer’ in time to celebrate New Year's Eve in style—pancakes, water and lolly snakes as well as a phone call to my mates who were all down at Inverloch chasing girls.
Friday, January 1, 12.25 a.m.
Have been thinking about everything that has been achieved in the last year and I find it amazing. It also excites me to think how much more will be achieved in this new year, and the many unknown adventures in the years to come.
It may have been a new year when I woke that morning, but things remained the same—my diary filled with mundane incidents that a few months ago wouldn't have warranted a moment's notice.
Friday, January 1, 6.20 p.m.
I seem to have the annoying ability to be able to hit the five millimetre thick lifelines that run along the edge of the deck all the way around the boat whenever I throw some food overboard. It's a bit like picking the slow lane at the cash register—I always manage to do it.
I set a course to steer me between the various small islands scattered south of New Zealand, enjoying the best winds I'd encountered to date. Not too strong,
yet constant and I was moving well.
One night, while reporting my position to Sydney Radio, the operator told me of another solo sailor who had just left Sydney a few days before. His name was Peter Keig, on the 38-foot boat Zeal. He was from the United Kingdom and was sailing home the same route as me. The operator was kind enough to set up a time for Peter and me to make contact.
It was the start of a friendship that was to last several months. It was good to talk to someone doing the same thing. Apart from one week when Peter was forced to stop in New Zealand after cracking one of his teeth on an unexpected hard piece of dried fruit, we stayed in contact right up until the Falkland Islands around Cape Horn.
Peter was returning home after spending time in Sydney with his girlfriend. It was the second time he had sailed UK—Australia non-stop then returned to the UK, so we talked a lot about sailing and the conditions I could expect to encounter. I can't actually recall him teaching me anything about how to get to Cape Horn or ways of sailing a yacht because, when it came down to it, you can't teach commonsense, which was really the major ingredient in completing a voyage. But just speaking to him boosted my confidence immensely.
Before coming in contact with Peter the only information I had about sailing around the world was from reading the books by those who had done it. And, to tell you the truth, they did more to scare me than inspire me to carry out my dream. But Peter was able to tell me how it was. And everything he said was reinforced by the fact I'd already been at sea for more than a month. One of the most important bits of advice he gave me was that the genuinely rough days were few and far between.
We could only speak for about twenty minutes each day, as Peter had to be more careful about his power consumption than me, but we packed a lot into those minutes. I thank Peter for being there and giving me a realistic picture of what lay ahead.
The more consistent winds brought with them plenty of rain clouds. I really hadn't had much rain up to that point, which meant I'd had little opportunity for a decent wash. So one night, when one of the darker clouds decided to drop its load, I grabbed the opportunity. I positioned a bucket to collect the water dripping from the end of the sail and stripped down. With a chamois in one hand and a bottle of shampoo in the other I proceeded to have a very cold fresh water shower. The spitting wasn't very heavy so I had to sponge the water from the back of a seat and squeezed it over my head. I lathered up and repeated the process to rinse it off. I got back down into the cabin invigorated and proceeded to comb my wet hair with a fork, as I'd forgotten to take a comb, before retiring to bed a clean and happy boy.