by Jesse Martin
It happened so quickly there wasn't much time to be scared. The boat had returned to its usual position, lurching as it was buffeted by the conditions. It was as if nothing had happened, except that my normally cosy cabin was dripping wet, smelly and a total mess.
The rest of the day was terrible, but slowly the wind died down. That night I was able to raise the storm jib with the triple-reefed mainsail and started moving quite well. Later on, the wind died down to 15 knots so I raised the genoa and went to bed eating lollies and roll-ups.
During the nightly sked I spoke to Brad Van Liew who was 180 miles closer to the Horn. He'd had 50 knots gusting to 70 with 12-metre seas. He had been terribly worried about losing his mast as he was constantly getting knocked down.
The wind had dropped to a comfortable speed and the sun was shining the very next day. I really appreciated the chance to clean things up, except when I accidentally stepped on a carton of milk, splurting its contents across the cabin and all over my equipment. I scrubbed furiously at the mess and got into the mould that had been hanging about the corners for the last few months, singing along to Pearl Jam.
‘Ooohh Iiiiiiiiii OrrrrOrrr I'm still a-live!’
You can do that when you are at the end of the earth and no-one can hear you. It was funny, but the times I felt the most alive were after I'd pulled through bad weather.
The temperature was getting down to 6—7 degrees at night and I was only four days away from Cape Horn. The wind was light but still enough to keep me moving. I hadn't been able to make contact with Sydney Radio for the previous three days so I couldn't make any radio calls to home. I was still in contact via email and could always use the satellite phone for voice if I needed to, but I preferred to keep that for times I really had to.
Sunday, February 28
Position 55°04'S, 77°07'W.
Not far to go now. Seas are great. Hope they stay like this! Couldn't get through to Sydney Radio so I tried Cape Town and Portishead but had no luck with either. I'm going to bed now as it is already getting light. I must convert my active hours so I'm up when it is light. Goodnight.
Since I left I'd been keeping to Melbourne time even though the part of the world I was in was actually fifteen hours behind. Cape Horn was actually on the same time zone as New York. I'd sleep late in the day and stay up at night so I could receive my family and friends’ email and radio calls as soon as they placed them. I was willing to throw my schedule out of whack to communicate, as that was my lifeline. It also made media interviews easier, rather than waking up in the middle of the night and immediately talking to a radio station with thousands of listeners. I had enough trouble sounding coherent at the best of times, without blurting out something stupid because I was half asleep.
By the time I got close to Cape Horn I was going to sleep at 9 p.m. Melbourne time when in fact it was just starting to get light where I was. Being awake at night also meant I couldn't see the bad weather or the overcast skies. Out of sight, out of mind.
Monday, March 1
Today was fantastic. Wind has been varying from 10—20 knots and has swung around to the west—northwest. Got up a couple of hours before the sun went down but it was a great sunset, the first in a long while, and no swell means the cockpit is dry.
That night was the second last before I got to Cape Horn.
Monday, March 1
Was up all night and didn't get much sleep as boat kept luffing up (pointing too close to the wind), so I was constantly fixing her course.
The swell started to die down as I closed in on land. I could sense land as I got closer, although I still couldn't see it. I'd been up during the night but was forcing myself to stay awake all day. I had to constantly monitor my progress and the changes in the wind so I could position myself to get as close to the Horn as possible.
Tuesday, March 2
What a start to the day. Didn't get much sleep this morning and noticed dolphins as the sun came up over the first land I'd seen since New Zealand 60 days ago.
Man, it looked great. Was all hazy and mystical then this rainbow came out. I am overwhelmed with the beauty around me. One of the most beautiful days of my life. Only 13 hours approximate to the Horn. Yippeeee!
The way I felt was incredible. It was probably due to a lack of sleep and the excitement of the countdown to Cape Horn, but everything just seemed so amazingly beautiful. I sat in the cockpit with an iced coffee and felt the cold on my face as the sun rose above the horizon. The dolphins swimming alongside seemed to sense my excitement, escorting Lionheart and me past the first land—Islas Ildefonso. The cold air seemed to magnify the sights around me. I kept the boat speed to a maximum, considering the lightish winds, trying to get to the Horn before sunset.
But as the day wore on I realised it wasn't going to be possible. A dense cloud cover came in later in the afternoon and I decided to slow Lionheart down to arrive at the Horn at sunrise the next morning.
Apart from a few hours sleep and an interview with the Today show, I pretty much just monitored my speed and direction all night, plotting my position on the chart. About three hours before the sun was due to come up the wind died altogether, then swung to the northeast. I became a touch concerned when, for a while, I began drifting helplessly towards land on my port side. Thankfully, the wind kept swinging and went to the west, giving me some much needed propulsion.
Wednesday, March 3
Have been kept busy with sail changes. Am very tired now. Not much sleep in the last two days. Was visited by some type of animal at the back of the boat. Could have been a seal.
As the sun came up on my second day in sight of South America, so did the wind strength. It was down to 5 knots but then swung very quickly back to the east and picked up to a comfortable 10 knots. This meant I had to tack back and forth and the slow progress through the night meant I wasn't going to see the Horn until later that day.
Wednesday, March 3, 9.05 a.m.
Sun is starting to come up. I am seventeen miles away from the Horn. Picked it up on radar.
Very soon after, I spotted its unmistakable shape. I'd dreamt about this moment for so long. The rising sun, combined with the early morning mist, made the sky a powerful orange colour, with the furthest headland only a small blob that came into view every now and then depending on the swell.
So this was Cape Horn. I could not imagine a better way to meet it! The Everest of sailing lay only a short distance ahead of me. I stood thinking of the aura of history and legend that surrounded this great cape, the Cape of Storms. I felt as though I'd been transported into some fiction book that Tolkien would write.
It was beautiful beyond description, and so real and clear to me that it felt in a sense, unreal.
To actually be there, at the Horn, created a sort of turmoil in my mind, as though I was grappling with two opposites. On the one hand there I was, a young kid who set out to do something many thought I shouldn't have, without knowing how either the boat or I would cope, and a resume that said I hadn't finished school yet.
On the other hand was this legendary rock that lived, in my mind, on the same level as Ben Harper and Bill Clinton. The level that I only saw on television, that, as far as I could work out, was way beyond my reach, in another kind of dimension.
Yet, there I was. I had to quickly readjust my concept of where I stood in the world. I was learning the most valuable lesson of the trip: I could get anywhere I wanted to, no matter how impossible it seemed.
I was at Cape Horn, the Cape Horn! The Cape Horn that sailors throughout history had been terrified of and the subject of talk around Yacht Club bars. Hell, I may as well be jumping off the 5-metre diving board at Ringwood pool head first, or jamming with Ben Harper. Or maybe sharing a beer with the President of the United States, or taking the first steps on the moon.
Hell, if I could sail my wimpy arse from the safety of the local Yacht Club, where everything was so straightforward and set out for me, to the kind of place on earth that you only
read about, then I could do anything in the whole wide world!
YES, YES, YES! WHOO HOOOOOO!
I thank God for the incredible gift of confidence I'd gained. It was hard not be inspired when you'd just had the experience I had.
I tacked along the coastline comfortably, passing the snowcapped mountains on the land and lumps of thick kelp. The cloud cover had disappeared and gave way to the bright early morning sun that lit up the waters around Lionheart. The water was a different colour as it was much shallower. The wind swung around a little further to the northeast, which allowed me to take a better direction while I just sat and digested the thoughts racing through my mind.
Wednesday, March 3, 7.40 p.m.
Rounded at 18.00 zulu (universal time). Am totally buggered now. I haven't had a good sleep in a few days. It has all of a sudden just hit me—I've done it, and all by myself. I feel pretty good about rounding. I just keep staring at it, wondering how I could capture what it was like to show others. Feel a bit sad. Same as end of weekend feeling. Maybe it is because it signifies the end of one leg. Maybe though, it is loneliness because I am reminded about land and know there are people close by. It is easier when you are thousands of miles from anything. Couldn't call Mum and Andrew or Dad cos of poor coverage on phone. I'll be right though. Probably cos I'm tired too. Am feeling weaker and weaker every minute now. I think I just need a good sleep to settle emotions that are running high. A good sleep and I'll get with enough energy to tackle the next leg.
CHAPTER 7
Through a Mind Field:
Cape Horn to the Azores
Total focus. You, the sea, the boat, the sky are one entity. Expect hardship and discomfort but no time for boredom. Maintenance, study and writing; just do, do, do!
— Note from John Hill
A definite pattern was emerging to my highs and lows. I was in the dumps again. It was the same feeling of emptiness that I had after seeing land and the fishermen off New Zealand. Yet, I felt the best after I passed through the hard times.
I suppose I should have seen this mental low coming. The Cape Horn build-up had had me on a high for weeks, since I started heading south on my descent for the rounding. It had been so large in my mind, not only because of its fearsome reputation, but because it was the place David Dicks had hit trouble and required assistance. In my mind, if I passed that point, I had a huge chance of completing the trip unassisted.
The three days before I rounded the Cape had been so amazing. There was this incredible feeling of anticipation, which, after I had rounded the Horn, had left me with nothing to replace it with. I was definitely experiencing what psychologists call the let down. I'm not sure if speaking to a psychologist before I left would have helped with this. I'm sure my mood was also intensified by a lack of sleep in the previous few days. I'd been running on excitement and adrenalin, but as that mix of fuel drained away, I felt lost.
I was writing my feelings down in my diary, and as I did I felt myself get weaker and weaker. The whole thing had been such a mental drain that when it was all over I just fell in a heap with the radar on, hoping the wind would stay constant and that there were no ships hanging about the area. I needed time to take in all the lessons I was learning and the strength to process all my thoughts and feelings.
I'd completed two of the five stages of the trip—Australia to New Zealand, and New Zealand to Cape Horn. I was on to the next stage—Cape Horn to my midway point at the Azores.
From Cape Horn onwards I assumed it was going to be all smooth sailing, but was I wrong! The weather improved dramatically as Lionheart and I headed up past the Falkland Islands. Then a series of fronts came from the west, giving me my second proper knockdown, and pushed me off course for about a week.
I was back on track mentally by the Falkland Islands, as I had something to focus my mind on. The Herald Sun had been trying to get a photograph of me ever since I neared Cape Horn. They'd contacted tour operators who travelled between Chile and Antarctica to see if anyone could take the picture. One operator was in the area as I rounded the Horn, but was heading south to Antarctica. If he did get a picture of me, he wouldn't be able to send it back to Melbourne for more than a month.
The paper's best hope lay with the Falkland Islands, and the air traffic to and from the islands. After many calls, the Royal Air Force base on the islands took up the case. But officialdom being what it was, by the time they got organised to do the flyover, I'd whistled past the islands and was out of range.
‘It is ironic that a single-handed yacht sailing at 6 knots has apparently run away from our 300 mile an hour aircraft,’ wrote Squadron Leader Gordon Parry, the Falkland Islands British Forces Commander in an email to the Herald Sun when they realised what had happened.
It was such a shame, as I was looking forward to seeing a huge military airplane do a low sweep over.
I lost contact with Peter while I was near the Falklands. He was well ahead of me, only about 20 degrees south of the equator.
Monday, March 15
I've got beautiful sunshine at the moment and yesterday I got so hot in the sun I had to strip down to thermals. My position is 44°1 l'S, 50°10'W.
With the better weather I could get into the jobs I'd been wanting to do for a while. There was a bit of movement in the wind vane which I couldn't work out. I got the tool kit out and realised that quite a few of the tools were going rusty. After I tweaked the nuts and bolts on the wind vane and slowed the movement down, I cleaned the tools and gave them an oil.
One job turned into another, which turned into another. During the knockdowns the cartons of milk under the galley bench had ruptured and were well and truly off. They'd started to affect the other cartons which had not yet broken. During one of the quiet days when there were a few rain clouds hanging about, I cleaned out the entire cupboard and separated the good ones from the bad. The milk had started to go hard and in some cases had actually set. I held the cartons that were broken or bloating over the side and punctured them with a knife. I then got all the empty and smelly cartons and threaded them onto a rope which I trailed behind the boat to clean all the gunk off before I stored them as rubbish.
I also collected all the dirty clothes I'd been wearing for the past three-and-a-half months and spent one sunny day washing them before rigging a clothesline that zigzagged all over the cockpit where I hung the clothes to dry. I then packed them away in dry bags. All the while I was sailing steadily north, up the coast of Argentina. What a pity I couldn't see the girls on the beaches!
Another day when there was no wind and the sun was beating down at full strength I got my wet weather gear out on deck to dry, then packed them away into garbage bags and stored them up the front with all the rubbish. I was to later discover the consequences of my actions.
There were many days of little wind, when Lionheart would sit still for hours on end. It was on one of those days, when Lionheart wasn't moving, that I spotted a pod of pilot whales. I grabbed the winch handle and started tapping it on the winch. A few of them diverted from their course and headed for me. I got the camera and watched through the viewfinder as one dived down and passed right under my rudder. Wow! I never actually stopped to think that one of them could damage the boat.
My days were a lot more comfortable by then. I was well past the Falklands and in radio contact with Neil and the others when they rounded the Horn. Neal Petersen on No Barriers saw his wind speed instrument get up to 77 knots in a storm passing Cape Horn. I was so lucky with my rounding, as I later found out that Roger Badham considered the weather surrounding me some of the worst he'd seen around Cape Horn:
He [meaning me] rounded Cape Horn in some of the worst weather I've experienced in routing or following a boat race in that region. My solution was to keep him north of it, then quickly right into the middle, so as to minimise the nasty winds around some very intense lows. That was probably my best contribution to the voyage.
I was getting around in shorts and my tan was developin
g nicely. My water tanks had stopped working properly and were spitting out half salty water that I found hard to drink. I had 250 litres in jerry cans which I used for drinking and kept the yukky tank water for cooking.
Sunday, March 28
Am using second jerry can of water today. Beautiful day. Feel a bit sick cos I sniffed some off milk. Is very hot day. Don't wear any clothes at all!
The next day the wind was fresh and Lionheart was moving quite well at 7 knots. The wind was just forward of the beam on the starboard side and the hot sun evaporated the saltwater, which was splashing up over the cockpit every now and then when a wave broke against me. I was keeping dry down below and had just turned on the BBC World service as I lay on my bunk. Not even a minute afterwards I heard and felt a loud thud on the hull somewhere forward of the mast. I assumed it was an extra large wave but I then heard the sound of the autopilot ram moving back and forth, which it did when it came off its attachment to the tiller. I immediately jumped up the companionway stairs and leaned out to reattach the tiller pilot.
I put the ram back in place then noticed a huge whale following behind the boat. I suddenly clicked as to what had happened and the adrenalin began pumping through my body. I'd read many stories of yachts that had been attacked by ramming whales and sunk for no apparent reason. At least this whale had a reason to be angry if he wanted to—I'd obviously run into him.