Lionheart

by Jesse Martin

  Monday, January 4, 9.25 p.m.

  Whoo hooo!! Just realised that I have passed 180° longitude and am at 179°48'W! I'm now in yesterday. The dark cloud passed over and I am back to 15 knots. Am waiting for email from Mum.

  I was starting to really get into my books at this stage. I'd finished the Hobbit, Death of a Guru, Walk with Me and was on to Further Along the Road Less Travelled by Scott M. Peck and Earth Time by David Suzuki. I found that I could read up to three books or more at a time, depending on what I felt like reading. It was great to lose myself in the words. It took me away into different worlds and gave me something to think about. I'd get into some books so much that when it came time to make a sail change I'd be on deck winching in ropes or untangling lines, but in my head I was still with the book. I'd get back in the cabin and not remember what I'd just done.

  Wednesday, January 6, 7.45 p.m.

  Am waiting for sunny day to dry sheet which got even more wet while hanging out to dry Floor is all slippery from oil. Caught myself talking and giggling to myself.

  A common question I'm asked was whether I talked to myself during the trip. Often I'd catch myself saying things out loud, but not to the extent of having a full-on weird conversation like ‘How ya feeling today?’

  ‘Oh good thanks, how’ bout you?’

  When I did speak aloud it was more like verbalising the thoughts swimming around my head. I've been doing it since I got back. In fact, I'm doing it as I write this book. As I think of some words to write down, I say them aloud to see if they sound right and flow correctly. Everyone does it (I hope) and it was that way I caught myself speaking ‘out loud’ as opposed to ‘to myself’.

  Wednesday, January 6, 8.15 p.m.

  Started reading Dove. Great book. I am reading four books at once now. Strange!

  I hit a few days of fog after I passed New Zealand, which was quite an experience out at sea, especially in the dark. At night I couldn't see the horizon or the stars above me. With no moon, there was no reference point for my mind. As far as I was concerned I could be floating in space. During those foggy nights I'd turn off the cabin lights and stand at the stern of Lionheart just feeling her motion as she took on the waves. It was amazing. Times like that I just wanted to have someone there to experience it with me, someone to say to: ‘Wow, how cool is that!’

  Saturday, January 9, 6.40 p.m.

  Starting to feel better now cos it's evening. Don't know why. Haven't cried for ages but just have an empty feeling. I wish I could be sharing all this with someone. Bilge still keeps filling up with water. Think the leak is somewhere near the head cocks.

  9.25 p.m.

  What a great night! First I spoke to Peter who gave me so much confidence about rounding the Horn. He also told me the BBC World Service frequencies so I've programmed them in. Excellent! Then I spoke to Mum, Andrew, Phil and Irene and am now listening to the opera on the BBC.

  Getting the BBC frequencies was a cause for great excitement. It became one other thing I could do to keep myself occupied. Besides playing the guitar, reading, cooking, eating, videoing, listening to the radio, writing and receiving email, talking to Peter and sleeping, the simplest but most important pastime was dreaming.

  For probably 60 per cent of the time I spent out at sea I was dreaming. I dreamt about everything.

  Dreaming is my drug, the thing that brings me comfort and is a tool I've used over the years to get through the hard times. Dreaming was my way of escaping to a place I wanted to be. I always dreamed whenever I needed to escape, whether I was on a school bus on the way home or at a speech night for school.

  For a large part of my life I didn't have a father figure around to take responsibility and do everything for me. Mum was trying to do that job, so I unconsciously took responsibility for many of the things a father would take on. Who knows, maybe I first wanted to take off and sail around the world by myself to get away from all that. Whatever the reason, after the Cape York trip with Dad and Beau, I'd tasted a lifestyle that I loved and gave me plenty of fuel for my dreams over the next few years.

  Dreaming had led me to every adventure I'd been on. I realised that dreams can be turned into reality, a realisation that is more valuable than any material thing. Once you realise that, you become a very powerful person, because you are able to do anything. I would imagine myself in a situation I wanted to be in and visualise every aspect of that situation—every single piece of equipment or the steps needed to get there.

  The Cape York trip started as a dream after Dad first spoke about doing it with his friend. I spent all of Year 10 at school dreaming about the Papua New Guinea adventure. The same with the trip with Dave on Imajica. I dreamt about doing a trip like that until I worked my way into a situation where it came true.

  Then came the ultimate dream . . . to sail around the world.

  Of course, things are only possible if dreams are acted upon. My dreaming turned into going to every boat show for three years, grabbing brochures and deciding on the equipment. I was passionate about my dream, so I put in the effort to make it come true. I believed a kid from Sassafras, who hadn't finished school and couldn't drive a car, could get a boat, find sponsorship and ultimately make it around the world. The key to it all was passion and faith, and enough self-belief to disregard people's negative opinions because I knew I was capable of making it happen.

  Getting the BBC frequencies was a high point for me, but that feeling didn't last long. The next day, I hit the kind of weather I knew I eventually had to encounter.

  It was about midday and I was trying to get some sleep, without much luck. The wind strength had increased and I was kept awake by sounds of stress on the boat that I hadn't heard before. I lay in my bunk until I couldn't stand it any more and decided to get up and heave to, which meant turn the boat into the waves to ride out the weather. For some reason I only put on a jacket and boots, leaving my middle section exposed to the elements. I went outside, cringing as the cold wind blasted my face. As the waves crashed into the boat I started to winch in the furler until there was only a small piece of sail still out. Then I pushed the tiller, turning Lionheart nearly into the wind, and the hove to position. The wind generator hadn't been turned off and was screaming as it spun furiously. It sounded like it was trying to spin itself off the pole, swinging from side to side, out of control. If I'd put my hand up it would have taken off a finger without a doubt.

  I was paranoid about getting anywhere near the thing. I waited behind the solar panels, still half naked, to see how the boat handled the new position and listened to the screaming coming from above my head. I ducked down quickly into the cabin and flicked the brake switch for the wind generator.

  Nothing happened. The high-pitched scream continued. I flicked it off and on again but it made no impact on the spinning turbine. I looked up at the battery meter and saw that it was generating 30 amps of power. Holy moly!

  The boat was getting knocked about quite badly, as it had swung around nearly side-on to the waves. I went outside again, holding on tight with every step I took. I could sense a knockdown easily occurring because of Lionheart's position to the waves. A knockdown is classified as the boat tipping 90 degrees, with the mast lying flat on the water. I decided to deploy the drogue in an attempt to head downwind with the waves.

  The drogue is a small parachute of about a metre in diameter, made of strong canvas and with webbing sewn inside. The idea was to tow it behind the boat on a long length of rope while steering the boat downwind, in the direction the waves were travelling. It had the effect of slowing the boat down and letting the waves pass underneath, which would be the most comfortable and safest position for Lionheart to be in. However, the danger of travelling downwind was that the boat could pick up speed on the face of a large wave and actually surf down it. If the wave was big enough, there was a real danger of the nose of the boat diving into the back of the wave in front and going head over heels or pitch-poling, as it is known to yachties. If that happ
ened, I'd almost definitely lose my mast and crucial equipment, not to mention possibly punch a hole in the hull from the broken rigging.

  I threw the drogue out the back, but I couldn't get it quite right. As I furled in the remaining sail, the drogue just drifted out to the side while the boat stayed in its vulnerable position, side-on to the waves. I fiddled with the tiller and tried to bring the boat around, but to no avail. I couldn't work out what I was doing wrong.

  Something needed to be done and quickly! The waves were building and the wind strength had increased to 45 knots, the strongest I'd faced so far. I needed to get Lionheart streamlined with the waves and the only other way I could do that was to cast out the sea anchor. The sea anchor is a much larger parachute-shaped object of about three metres in diameter. It's designed to hang from the bow of the boat where a conventional anchor would roll from, and stop the boat dead still, then drag it in line with the waves.

  The rope leading from the bow that I would tie the sea anchor to ran around the edge of the deck to the cockpit and was attached to the boat with little pull-ties. All I had to do was shackle the sea anchor to the eye of the rope and throw it out the side and the water pressure would break the thin plastic tie-downs holding the rope in place.

  I took the sea anchor out of its bag, stuffed it through the lifelines and into the water, trying as best as I could not to tangle it. Sure enough, the anchor started to open and the rope tightened, popping the plastic ties. As I watched it slip under the side of the boat, my stupid mistake hit me. The rope had been set up for easy use on the starboard side, the side I naturally threw the anchor out. But this was the lee side, the protected side, and the way the boat was drifting. I should have thrown it out the port side. I was drifting onto the anchor before it had even started pulling from the bow.

  I frantically ran along the deck, trying to pull the rope and anchor up again to put it on the other side, but there was no way I could drag it up. It was too far gone. I could already see the fluoro colours of the parachute starting to surface on the other side.

  Oh no! It was wrapped under the boat and around the back of the keel. I was stuck. I had a drogue out the back doing nothing but preventing manoeuvrability, a sea anchor caught around the keel and I was still side-on to the waves, which were reaching six to seven metres. What was I going to do?

  In the heat of the moment all I could think of was to cut the line of the sea anchor before it bent the prop shaft. If this was to bend, it could crack the hull of the boat. It was a pretty desperate situation. The boat was twisting violently as the wind screamed around me. The waves continued to crash over the boat. I was exhausted and freezing.

  I scrambled back to the cockpit on my knees to grab a knife, still dressed only in my bright yellow jacket and blue knee-high boots. I tried to get to the cockpit as I tangled with the two harnesses securing me to the boat. The tiller was preventing my movement, with a bucket getting in the way and a whole heap of tangled ropes reaching out at funny angles trying to trip me up.

  All of a sudden, out the corner of my eye, I saw white water approaching. It was the crest of a breaking wave about eight metres high. I could feel Lionheart leaning over to starboard as the wave hit. All I remember was the drenching and chaos as the wave half-knocked Lionheart down. The boat was probably on an angle of about 55 degrees as I stood on the back of the seat across the cockpit holding on desperately so I wouldn't slip off into the water. The mast swung back to a vertical position as I scrambled out from under the bimini canopy which had until then protected the companionway hatch from flying spray. It lay over me with the frame bent back into the cockpit, blocking the entrance into the cabin.

  I yelled inside my head, ‘I HATE THIS!’

  Most of the ropes from the cockpit were hanging over the starboard side and my boots were full of water. I still had to get down into the cabin to get a knife so I could cut the sea anchor line. Time was pressing, for I didn't know what damage, if any, it was doing. Then the second wave hit. I was on the stern at the solar panel frame at this stage surveying the mess when I saw it coming. At least this time I was able to hold on with both arms to one of the frames holding the panels in place. Once again the boat went half over, then slowly came back to its right position again.

  I had to get down below to get a knife and I had to do it quickly! I brutally yanked the frames off the bimini, folded them back out of the way and got below deck. I bashed the companionway slide with the numb palm of my hand to get it moving, then slid it right back. I gave the horizon a scan for any more big waves about to break before lifting my knees and lowering myself into the opening without taking out the washboards. The cabin was soaked from the water pouring over Lionheart.

  I grabbed the knife and put it between my teeth. I felt like a pirate. (John Hill was to blast me afterwards for not having a knife on me at all times.) I pulled myself out of the hatch slide again, pulling the slide shut behind me, then scrambled to attach my harnesses.

  I was out and had the knife to cut that blasted line. It took me longer than usual to get to the bow of the boat because of the two harnesses I was using. I was always attached to the boat by at least one of them. I got to the pulpit at the front of the boat and leant out over it to slowly saw the rope with the rusty blade. It soon gave way as I severed the remaining strands and I watched as I drifted away from my one and only sea anchor.

  I looked out over the waves ahead of me and for the first time saw the ocean in such a ferocious mood. I was awed. The waves weren't breaking all that often, but the size of the swell made Lionheart and me feel so insignificant.

  I made my way back to the cockpit, relieved that the sea anchor had been cut, but I still had to adjust the drogue to make sure I was heading downwind. The boat headed more downwind this time as I fiddled with the steering and the amount of line I let out to the drogue. Once it was secured, there was not much more I could do. I was freezing, having been out on deck with no pants for nearly an hour, so I went down below and was greeted by a soaking cabin with books, food and undies sliding around the floor in the water.

  Just what I needed to make me feel better. My dry, warm hideaway was a mess!

  To the experienced sailor, it would be obvious I needed a small amount of sail up to keep Lionheart moving forward, so the drogue would work. I simply didn't know this. It had been a bad experience, but I'd learnt a lot from it. The gale was about a force eight on the Beaufort scale, which was officially a gale, and I'd made it through.

  Besides the loss of the sea anchor and the cleaning up I had to do, I was on a mega-high. I'd never been in a proper gale before and had never used equipment like a drogue or a sea anchor before, and I'd made it through a force eight gale.

  Whooo hooo! And I'd done it all on my own.

  That gale wasn't as bad as I'd experience later in the trip, but the fact I was unprepared and got caught side-on to the waves made it seem worse to me. Next time, however, I knew that I would have to keep the boat moving with a little bit of sail up and that I could tow a drogue downwind.

  I had made mistakes, but I would learn from them. The journey was going just how I'd planned!

  It took me ages to winch the drogue in the next day—I'd let out so much line. I took the fabric from the bimini off the frame as it was torn and, if I set the bimini up again, it would have probably been ripped off again.

  The days on the Pacific continued with generally better weather. I tried fixing the leaks above the navigation table and galley to no avail. I moved the anchor and all the chain from the anchor well and stored it below deck in the hope it would lighten the bow and give me more buoyancy.

  The winds were consistent as I passed from the shadow of New Zealand. There were days when the slapping of the sails frustrated me and days when it was a bit too wet for my liking, but generally, I was making good progress and was happy, having made it through my first blow and settling into life on the water. There was no need for me to cry any more. I was really enjoying myself. I'd
been out at sea long enough to accept this new way of life, and felt satisfied in a way I'd rarely felt before.

  I was happy just sitting at the navigation table drawing plans for a log cabin that I'd one day build with my beautiful wife, or taking on the challenge of making a meal in the galley of my small boat. I really started appreciating the small things in life and enjoyed the moment for what it was. There were no school bells or weekends to look forward to, just one long process of constantly checking the boat and making adjustments 24 hours a day, punctuated by sleeping, reading, dreaming and cooking.

  What I loved about this way of life was that it never got boring. I'd watch the sun reflect off the water and tinkle through the back of the wavelets, yet never get sick of admiring it, because each scene was different and original. A sunset, a menacing rain cloud, an albatross soaring through the air—no matter how many times I saw those scenes, they always gave me something different to think about. Plus, they were such beautiful sights, I always felt contented and lucky to have seen them.

  One night, while crossing the mid-Pacific, I felt a little uneasy about the weather and the potential for it to get worse. I went outside in my wet weather gear to monitor the sail setup. I looked up and through a clearing in the overcast sky I saw a few stars shining so bright and clear.

  I realised then that it was just the cloud cover giving me the strong winds and that above the clouds was a beautiful sea of stars stretching across the universe. I felt so relieved, because way out there, it was calm and clear and under control, compared to the conditions I was battling. I knew that the creator of it all was on my side and what seemed to be chaos for me was merely a small covering of cloud, ultimately controlled by the very being who was looking after me. What reason did I have to be concerned?