by Jesse Martin
As I said, even the most simple and mundane tasks on board took on a major significance. Everything I did was the most important thing in the world at that time. The process of making a chocolate milk, for instance, became not just making a drink, but a major leisure activity.
First, one tablespoon of drinking chocolate was put into a mug, then one tablespoon of sugar added. The jars of chocolate and sugar were promptly put back in their place on the shelf. I heated about 20 ml of water over the stove, which was then added to the mug until the sugar and chocolate dissolved. Then came the most important job—getting a smooth texture. The little globules of chocolate sticking together were squashed with the back of a spoon against the side of the cup. This could take a few minutes while I was lost in thought looking out the porthole. Once the consistency was satisfactory it was time to add the milk. Once poured in and stirred, I not only had some perfect chocolate milk, but I'd kept myself busy for ten minutes.
It was the same with cooking, cleaning fish, cleaning the cabin or washing dishes. Each little job became an important mission. I'd settled into a comfortable groove, but my up and down days continued, in sync with how I progressed.
Saturday, January 16, 7.25 p.m.
Haven't done much at all today. In fact haven't done anything. It is as if I am brain dead. Batteries are about negative 60. Won't run tricolour tonight. I brushed my teeth. Felt good. Should do it more often.
I was a little concerned at what seemed to be a minor memory problem. My short-term memory seemed to have disappeared. It was terrible. I'd decide to make a hot drink for something to do, so I'd light a match and turn on the metho stove to find that the metho tank had run out. Not a problem. I'd put out the match, grab the bottle I used for transporting the metho, get the tap handle from the galley drawer and fill up the bottle from the main tank underneath my bunk. I'd put the tap handle back and squirt the metho into the stove tanks then screw the lid back on and wipe up the spilt metho. Easy! Then I'd stand looking at the stove and wonder what the hell I was going to do next. I couldn't remember for the life of me why I was lighting the stove in the first place. Ten minutes later and a few pages further into a book I'd feel like having a hot drink. It would then hit me that was what I'd planned to do in the first place.
When I decided to do the solo voyage, one of the things I was looking forward to was to put into practice the celestial navigation I'd learnt from Dave on the Belize trip. I had a global positioning system (GPS) on board, which provided a pinpoint accurate position reading, but I wanted to use the traditional method as often as I could. As I got more familiar with the boat and my passage, I decided to get out the sextant, only to discover I'd left a vital piece of the process at home—the almanac (nautical tables) that I needed to do the calculations to provide a position. Without it, the sextant was as much use as a fishing rod without a line or hook. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I had no choice but to continue with the GPS, which took a fix from satellites circling the globe, then plot my longitude and latitude on my chart.
The excitement really started to build as I made my way further across the Pacific, closing down on the Horn. I was told by Andrew, who was religiously plotting my daily position on a huge world map at home, that my course started to take on a more assertive look. Rather than wandering all over the place, my daily positions reflected a more focused sailor who went the extra mile to head in the right direction. I was doing much better distances each day, more than 100 miles a day consistently.
Since I've been back and seen the map marking my daily positions, I don't think it's much coincidence that when the change in my progress took place, I was two-thirds of the way to the Horn. That was when my attitude and confidence surged.
I was getting pumped up as the notorious Cape Horn started to show its ugly head on the other side of my chart and my discussions with Peter sheeted home the reality that I was really going to round the Horn. Everyone goes on about Cape Horn, but it really is the Mount Everest of sailing, because of its dangerously high latitude and fierce history. If all I did was round Cape Horn on that trip, I'd have been happy. And I was going to do it all on my own.
I reckon anyone can inspire themselves. For me, the knowledge that I was soon going to round Cape Horn on my own was enough to inspire me to keep going. It was an amazing thought. Here I was, doing it on my own.
ON MY OWN!
This is what I loved about the trip. I was (to a degree) in control of my own destiny. If I was tired or lazy and didn't pull out a reef to increase my speed then it would take longer to get home and see those I missed. If I was too blase about the maintenance and use of my equipment, then my trip could suddenly end. My decisions could affect my survival. I'd never carried such heavy responsibility before. It made me feel alive.
Before I set out on the trip, rounding the Horn and Southern Ocean sailing were such daunting challenges. But by that point I felt differently. I'd taken the plunge and faced my fears by crossing the starting line. I had faith in Lionheart and, after tackling the force eight gale, I was beginning to understand how the ocean worked, that the big waves just went rolling under me 98 per cent of the time without a hint of breaking into the boat. And I'd discovered that the unknown was worse when it remained unknown. When the truth became apparent, everything was so much easier. I was pumped and buzzed with excitement at my new understanding of so many things.
When I began the trip, I thought I had to follow Kay Cottee's and David Dicks’ routes because they knew what they were doing. But I had become one of them. I was confident in my knowledge of the characteristics of the ocean, so I took my own route. They went this way and that way—well, I'll go my own way!
The crazy thing about this confidence thing is that it is not secret knowledge you learn by sitting around a yacht club bar with a beer in hand for 50 years. It comes from going out and taking full responsibility for oneself.
I acknowledge that some experience was necessary. Many people said my three-and-a-half months of offshore sailing was not enough, but they missed the point. You can crew on a boat for most of your life but if you're just sailing in the Bay under the command of a skipper then they are the only conditions in which you will excel.
I wanted to become a good solo sailor so I could sail around the world. I had the time with Dave aboard Imajica where I learnt to operate the wind vane and to do celestial navigation. I was confident I could physically do everything that Dave did.
My next practice was on this trip. How can one get solo sailing experience without getting out there on their own? How do skateboarders pull off the most amazing moves mid-air without attempting the very first one?
The point is, they can't. Their strength is, they're not afraid to fail in the name of giving it a go. The skateboarder hits the tarmac over and over until he discovers that it doesn't hurt quite as much as he imagined it would. He gains confidence and learns from what he did wrong last time. I go to skate competitions and watch those blokes pulling their moves and wonder how they do it. It's the celebration of the skater's courage at giving it a go in the first place. That's the human spirit shining through. I'd come through the first blow and knew what the tarmac felt like—it wasn't so bad. It was a liberating feeling.
On 17 February I received an email from Roger telling me the current weather patterns would give me a good chance to start my descent to the Horn. Until then I'd stuck to about 43°S. Cape Horn was at 56°S so I had a fair way south to go, which meant a greater chance of coming across bad weather and much colder conditions.
It didn't faze me much, though. Peter had caught up after his stop in New Zealand and was the same distance from the Horn as I was but five degrees or 300 miles further south. It was the closest I ever got to my new friend.
I got the storm jib out and hanked it permanently to the baby forestay, ready to raise at short notice and set Lionheart on a southeast course.
It may still have been summer in the southern hemisphere, but it made little differe
nce once into the high latitudes. The mornings started to become very cold. I lay in bed in my thermal undies with my head under the sleeping bag breathing onto my body. I'd get up and get straight into my wet weather trousers and polar fleece jacket and boots, then light the stove to warm up the cabin.
Through my radio contact with Stewie Howarth at the Sandringham Yacht Club I made contact with Neil Hunter aboard Paladin II, the only Australian competing in the Around Alone Race. He was also sailing under the Sandringham Yacht Club colours. Neil's boat was a 40 footer and couldn't really compete against the state-of-the-art 60 footers in the lead. But there were quite a few boats in Neil's situation and this group would keep a radio sked twice a day. (A sked is a yachtie term for a scheduled radio link-up.)
There was Neal Peterson from South Africa on No Barriers and Minoru Saito from Japan who, at 65, was on track to become the oldest solo sailor. There was also a Russian adventurer, a little way behind. The race winners used to get $10,000, a pittance compared to what they outlaid, but with the race having few funds, each of the competitors in the 1998—99 race were given a T-shirt with the words ‘Around Alone Veteran’ on it. That was all! There was no prize for the winner.
I joined the radio sked for this group, which was about three weeks behind me but closing in fast. One night I was amused to hear from Neil that the Russian sailor got the fright of his life when sailing with a pod of dolphins. Apparently the boat broached a little on a wave just as a dolphin was jumping out of the same wave causing it to land in the cockpit. I could just imagine a big dolphin flapping about in my cockpit and didn't envy the job of getting one back into the water.
Since it was first discovered Cape Horn has been known as one of the most treacherous capes in the world to round. A major reason for this is its proximity to Antarctica, about 500 miles from the Antarctic convergence zone. Being so far south compared to the Cape of Good Hope and the other capes, the frequency of gales is much higher. Add to this the chance of colliding with an iceberg, and the bitterly cold temperatures, and it's easy to see why it has its reputation.
For the two or three weeks as I headed south, the chance of bad weather increased dramatically. The main reason for that was the low pressure systems that tear around the Southern Ocean in an easterly direction between 40° and 60°S. The winds pass under all the capes of the world until they get to Cape Horn, where the shape of the land pushes the systems further south. This change of course can push the systems into awkward positions and even into each other, producing the violent weather the area was renowned for. On top of that, the water got shallower closer to land, making for larger and messier waves.
I continued moving along in good weather. I say good weather relative to what I knew the area could produce. It was still strong but not so strong that I was worried. I did notice how much the swell built up, even with little wind. It was mostly overcast weather with very few days where the sun could be seen.
The leaders of the Around Alone Race were nearing me. The head of the fleet was Marc Thiercelin on Somewhere, which was in line with me but much further south on its way to rounding the Horn. Following closely behind him was Isabelle Autissier, with Giovanni Soldini on his boat FILA behind her.
About ten days from the Horn I received an email from Mum telling me Isabelle Autissier had let off her 406 MHz EPIRB. My first thought was of the kind of weather she was having. There didn't look like there was anything around that could be a problem other than the usual 30-knot fronts that come through that area very quickly.
That night on the radio sked with Neil and the others I asked what was happening. No-one knew, not even the race organisers. The rescue control centre, wherever that was, had picked up a distress signal from Autissier's EPIRB, so they knew her position but there was no way of finding out what was wrong until someone actually got there.
Those boats were sailing in probably the most remote area anyone could be. It would take days for a navy vessel to get to her so the only other option was for one of her fellow competitors to head to her aid. I knew Giovanni Soldini was probably closest to her and that he'd detour to check out what was wrong with her.
It made me laugh during some of the media interviews I was doing when I was asked how I was involved in the rescue operation and what I thought when I heard the EPIRB go off. For starters you can't hear EPIRBs, and secondly, I was 1000 miles away from Isabelle Autissier, and it would have taken me a week to get to her. That's the media for you!
The hours counted down to Soldini's estimated time of arrival at Autissier's boat. I woke the next morning to an email from Mum saying that Isabelle's boat had turned upside down after her keel was snapped off by a wave and that Soldini had rescued her after throwing a hammer on her upturned hull to let her know he was there. They then left her boat floating in the ocean still upside-down and headed for Punta, in Chile, the next scheduled stop in the race, where she could be set ashore. Peter and I joked about all the equipment on the boat and Peter claimed he'd turn around and head back to the boat to grab the winches!
Autissier's keel snapped off after her electric autopilot failed and caused the boat to turn side-on to a wave. It broke onto the boat and caught the keel at a bad angle, snapping it off. The weight of the mast flipped the boat and it stayed that way until Soldini came to the rescue.
Speed was the only criteria on which racing boats were designed. They were incredibly light with as little drag under the water as possible to give them a plaining hull. Their keels were built from fancy materials which they hoped would have an edge on the other boats. It's no surprise that some break when pushed too hard trying to get to the finish line first.
Lionheart, on the other hand, had a much stronger keel, more integral to the hull. She was very much slower than the racing boats, but I wasn't there to set a speed record. All I had to do was take it easy, not break anything or fall overboard. There was no way I was going to push my boat. Mine was a marathon journey, not one of speed, and I was very aware of it.
At the time of the rescue I kept an ear out for any radio traffic across the air waves in case there was an update. I managed to pick up two other competitors who were in between the leaders and the 40 footers a couple of weeks behind. They were Brad Van Liew on board Balance Bar and Mike Garside on Magellan Alpha. They were ahead of me closer to the Horn. I spoke to them a couple of times but usually I couldn't get through.
Tuesday, February 23
Roger says I can step on it now and go as fast as I can. Dropped storm jib as wind was 15—20 most of the day and unfurled genoa and raised double-reefed main. Heading due south at 6—61/2 knots. This should get me to 45°30'S by the morning which is where Peter picked up all his current. The Around Alone Race weather people are predicting some terrible weather next Tuesday and Wednesday when I expect to be at the Horn, but Roger says it doesn't look too bad just yet.
Wednesday, February 24, 12.45 p.m.
Peter rounded the Horn at midnight Melbourne time last night and I expect I'll round hopefully in 4—5 days’ time. He said it is like there is a line that you cross when you get around the Horn—the swell dies right down to about a metre and it almost feels tropical. Sounds good to me.
Peter had rounded the Horn that day at 8 a.m. local time after slowing down during the night so he could pass it during daylight. I'd never contemplated that I could possibly pass the Horn in the dark. Imagine not seeing it! The weather was looking good so Roger gave me the go-ahead to get to the Horn as quickly as I could before the next low pressure system came through. The Around Alone Race headquarters sent me an email asking me about my safety equipment in case I was called on to help in a rescue.
Wednesday, February 24, 5 p.m.
The radio sked has just finished tonight. Magellan Alpha and Balance Bar moved their sked forward one hour which is the same time I talk to Neil and the others. Everyone ended up talking, including Peter who woke himself up especially and made himself a cup of tea.
The next day I had an a
mazing feeling when listening to the BBC. On the program they were discussing the modern 24-hour society and were interviewing the manager in the Coles supermarket at Sandringham. It totally blew me away. Here I was, listening to a world-wide station that interviewed people like Bill Clinton and leaders from nearly every country in the world and they were talking to the manager of a supermarket I used to walk past on my way to the Yacht Club. How about that!
The wind started to build to a force eight gale and I wasn't liking it much. It was coming from the northeast and I was only able to make headway south. It was taking me further away from where I wanted to go so I hove to, pointing the boat 60 degrees into the wind with a triple-reef mainsail up. I then jumped into the cabin, and waited for the bad weather to pass.
Friday, February 26, 8.30 a.m.
Wave nearly knocked me flat last night. Not a proper knockdown though. Wind was coming down to 25 knots every now and then, but has picked up again.
Spoke to mates which was great. Made me all excited for some reason and I couldn't go to sleep. Going to bed now as it gets light.
A short time after the morning skies started to get light, Lionheart and I experienced our first proper knockdown which must have taken the mast past the horizontal point and into the water.
Friday, February 26
Just been knocked down a beauty. Stuff everywhere and also wet. Pain in the arse. Get me out of here!
I woke up just as the boat was coming back up, and all I could hear was water gushing down from the front hatch and the companionway slide. I reckon I must have gone past 90 degrees, as the microphone of the HF radio had come off its vertical slide holder and the navigation table had come open. It looked like a bomb had gone off in the cabin. The navigation books had been flung from the navigation table, all the food bags were thrown to starboard, all the ropes were out of their bags, a DD-size battery was lodged in the netting above my bunk, the flooring had dislodged, the leeward spinnaker pole was undone and banging about, the horn cleat tying the tiller off had broken, and some flying Tupperware had cracked the teak cupboards beside my bunk.