by Jesse Martin
I didn't know what was going to happen as he was not alone. A second whale followed close behind. I had to get it all on film. If I was going to sink then there was nothing I could do about it, but at least I should try to film it, for the record. I whipped down below and switched the radio off. I grabbed the video camera, and turned it on while bounding back into the cockpit. The whale was still following, but much further behind. The camera was heavy and I felt that it wouldn't have picked up the whale in the water so I didn't bother. What a blow.
I stayed outside for a while longer to make sure the whales weren't planning a surprise attack from below, but nothing happened. I then checked the bilge for any excess water which would have indicated a leak somewhere. It seemed dry enough and Lionheart appeared to be sailing along as if nothing had happened. We'd both made it through unscathed.
I was stoked by the experience. Another possible disaster had been overcome. Bring on the next one, baby!
The strange thing was that I had a dream a few weeks before about hitting a whale. I started to pray that I didn't dream about colliding with a tanker!
The marine life seemed to be a lot more active in this part of the world. I soon found my first flying fish lying on deck. I was familiar with these strange creatures from the trip with Dave and there I was, on my own, with the small flying fish. It marked the beginning of the tropics for me. From then on they got bigger and bigger and the schools would sense the presence of Lionheart and take to the air in great numbers. At night I'd hear a thud followed by a few flickers to indicate one of the fish had landed on board and was stranded.
They were cute little fish but I soon came to hate the noise of one landing on board, for they played heavily on my conscience. I'd be woken by the thud of one ramming head-first into the boat then I'd try to get back to sleep. It just wasn't possible. The noise of them flipping about the deck screamed out to me to get up and throw them back overboard. It would have been easy if they died quickly but they flip-flopped away until the flips became less and less frequent, like the last gasps of a dying person. I'd fall asleep for a minute to be woken by another flicker of life. I couldn't bear lying there while I knew a fish was suffering. I usually couldn't get back to sleep until I'd got out of bed and thrown it overboard. It got pretty annoying when it happened three or four times a night.
Not only could I hear them land, but I could also smell them. The fresh smell of broken scales wafted down into the cabin where I could tell there was one on board even if it made no noise.
They could be a real problem. One morning I came out on deck and counted fifteen dead fish lying about the place: in the reefs of the sails, jammed beside the life raft and the wall, and even mixed in with the ropes in the rope bags. Some were quite large, up to 30 centimetres long. I tried to cook one once but there were too many bones and scales. At least I knew it was possible to eat them in an emergency.
As I headed further and further north it got hotter and hotter. I had to position my little 12-volt fan above my head and have it on all night just so I could get to sleep.
Wednesday, March 31
Roger has been predicting no wind for a few days but have had plenty. Then last night it died off and now there is none. Got up during the night and dropped sails cos they were annoying me so much. Sea is very flat and cos there is no wind it's very hot.
For the next three days I was becalmed. It was a taste of what was to come when I hit the doldrums. This was the area, 15° each side of the equator, notorious for days of no wind and stifling heat. It was said to drive sailors mad through frustration.
The days had already started to become very hot although I was still about 1000 miles from the doldrums. I was now about 500 miles off the coast of Brazil. I found the only way to get things done was to get up early and do them before the sun became unbearable.
Thursday, April 1
Don't feel the best, like I am wasting time (which I am) seeing that I am already behind schedule.
As the boat drifted around in circles so I too drifted around the boat, trying to escape the ever-present sun glaring down on me. I rigged up a shade out of my bunk sheet to read under but I couldn't enclose every side, so the sun still got in as the boat slowly drifted all over the place. I used the solar shower, which heated the water in no time when I hung it from the mast, to have a real good clean and a shave. I then put on some deodorant—all ready for Saturday night.
Friday, April 2 (Good Friday)
Still no wind! Saw a turtle. Changed lure and finally caught first fish—a baby dorado. Plenty for one meal but I used too much oil so it wasn't so nice. Also tried to make leather out of its skin. Rubbed salt and moisturiser into it when it started drying out and going hard. Such a pain in the arse and waste of time. Going nowhere. Water is oily calm.
The frustration was immense. Whenever the boat was sailing, everything felt worthwhile. I was making progress towards home, in a positive, forward direction. But when there was no wind and no movement, everything seemed grey. There was no point to being out there, no point to my existence. Time may as well have not existed. My actions had no meaning behind them because they weren't adding to the ultimate goal of getting home. Why was I feeding myself and wasting food? What was the point of getting up in the morning? Why do anything? There was no point to it. It was just idle time waiting around for mother nature to change her mood. I hated it! A slight breeze eventually picked up and I got moving again. It was generally light for the next five days, except for a huge rain cloud that passed overhead and sent the wind to 30 knots for about half an hour. It also dumped some of its load on me. I managed to block the cockpit drains and caught a whole heap of fresh water which I used to wash and wipe things down.
Thursday, April 8
Have been buzzing tonight. First of all 3 AW couldn't get through on the satellite phone so I called Megan (from the PR company) and she gave me the number to call them on. Did the interview, then called Mum at work to ask her to drop the tapes off at Trav's for his party tonight. Then I called Trav who said he just heard me on 3AW. Don't ask me why he was listening to 3AW! Ha! Goodnight.
That night I spoke to my friends at the party for more than an hour. Talking to so many of them really lifted my spirits. Anna and Katie told me how awesome Ben Harper had been at the Offshore Music Festival. I was jumping out of my skin with excitement. I wanted to be there among my friends, to have their vibes wash over me.
I estimated the call cost $900, which I felt really guilty about for days. I asked Mum to look into getting some kind of sponsorship deal with a communications company for cheaper calls. I hoped someone would come to the party because there was no way Mistral could afford for me to speak like that again.
Saturday, April 10
Wind is back—blessed are the trade winds! Read, ate, played guitar—that was my day basically. The wind means that batteries are being brought back to full by the wind generator.
Sunday, April 11
Only new thing that happened today was while I was writing the column for the paper, I noticed the fishing line was tight. I pulled in a beautiful tuna but it was half eaten by sharks. Don't know how long it had been there.
Monday, April 12
The tan is going very well—all over in fact—but there is a price you have to pay, moving about the boat extremely careful—you don't want to get anything caught in the rigging.
It was a much easier lifestyle in the tropics. The sailing was easier, if not a bit more frustrating, but at least I didn't need to be too worried about the onset of dangerous weather. The main concern in those waters was the tankers that pass between Europe and the Americas.
Tuesday, April 13
Spotted a couple of lights off port quarter. Couldn't pick anything up on radar but I still think it must have been a ship . . . unless it's a UFO.
Those lights turned out to be a ship all right, and he was headed straight for me. I turned on the navigation lights and radioed him.
Nothing. I tried again. This tim
e I got a response, ‘What you want?’
He didn't sound particularly friendly. I tried to explain I just wanted him to know I was there but he didn't understand. He understood ‘Goodbye, goodbye’ though!
I realised that as I entered the northern hemisphere I'd start to see more ships. I had to be careful as the large tankers couldn't pull up or quickly divert for something as small as Lionheart, which they probably wouldn't see in the first place.
The maritime rule of power giving way to sail was not exactly the most practical rule out there. My worry was that I'd get caught in the path of a ship and have no wind to escape. It was a real danger. I was also concerned that the radar had not picked up the ship.
Sunday, April 18, 6.11 a.m.
Have just crossed into the northern hemisphere but I forgot to check if the water goes down the drain the opposite way. Will check next time I pass. ETA for the Azores is about 3—4 weeks.
Monday, April 19
I have lost all wind. Since crossing the equator it has been off and on. It has been bloody annoying as I raise and drop sails all day and then all of a sudden it's a squall of 25 knots from the opposite direction. Can't it give me a break? Swear at sails when they back wind. Punch them and have broken a few things. I'm rolling like a bloody rocking horse. Can't get away from anything. The whole rig makes such a noise when no sails are up and the rolling is such a pain in the arse. No sun, no wind, no power! (No fun)
I'd hit the doldrums. The frustration of not moving, combined with the dull, overcast and sticky, humid conditions, boiled up in me to the extent that I had to get it out somehow. I'd scream as loud as I could until I hurt my throat and collapse in tears and exhaustion.
I became very short-tempered, with many things taking the brunt of my anger. I took out my frustration on winch handles, the boom, torches and my water container, which broke and made collecting water from the jerry cans each day all the more difficult. It may sound like the tantrums of a spoilt brat, but it was an indescribable feeling. Relying on the wind, I was completely helpless when it failed to blow. Earlier in the trip when the wind failed to blow I felt I was wasting my time. I now felt as though I was trapped. I wasn't just wasting my time, I was being held hostage by the wind.
It stayed like that for five days, with annoying wind bursts, enough only to tease and frustrate me even more. Then, as though those previous five days had not existed, I hit the northeasterly trade winds. I was through the doldrums and had constant wind for the next couple of weeks. Whooo hooo! I was back in the good stuff and loving it.
Over the next few weeks I had my best run of the trip. I covered distances of 130 to 135 miles a day consistently. The wind was always on the beam or a little bit forward of the beam, causing the windward side of the boat to get a brown tinge. Peter had warned this would happen, though it wasn't a problem other than the sails getting dirty. They were very fine particles of sand being blown thousands of miles across the North Atlantic from the Sahara Desert. I could run my finger down a stay and it would leave a brown mark on the skin. When it rained, the dirt would collect in the puddles on the deck, forming its own little desert when it dried.
Saturday, May 1
I woke in the middle of a very vivid dream about the day I return home. I can remember looking at people in the street and having a very definite feeling of their presence (it sticks out in my mind cos it's something I miss out here).
My family was there. Everyone—Pop, Gran, Mandy, Stewart—they all made me feel so safe to be around them.
My batteries were getting quite low since two of the three solar panels had stopped working since the knockdown around Cape Horn. I couldn't afford to run the radar on watch for ships and I didn't have the navigation lights on for the same reason. I had to get up at night at intervals to check for shipping and also my course.
During that night I opened my eyes and wondered how long I'd been asleep for (one-and-a-half hours, as it turned out). I woke from the dream wondering if my family and friends were actually on board the boat with me. I swung out of my bunk, wiped the hair off my face and looked at the wind speed instrument and the compass to check my course. I then received the fright of my life: there, behind the boat, was a huge tanker cutting across my stern on a perpendicular course, with all its lights on show. It was only a few hundred metres away and lit up like a Christmas tree. The first ship I saw in two-and-a-half weeks and it nearly hit me! I flicked on all the lights I had on board but was too afraid to turn on the VHF radio in case the captain abused me for not running my lights.
I had the feeling that because it was a full moon he'd seen my white sails and steered clear. That feeling was backed by the fact that when he passed, some of his lights went out. The tanker continued on its way and very soon was nothing but a single light on the horizon.
The experience was just too close for comfort. I resolved to leave my navigation lights on at all times, even if it did run down my power.
Sunday, May 2
Am annoyed cos Roger says that I'll be running out of wind for about a week. Has started now.
This wasn't good news. I'd just found out that Mum, Beau, Andrew, Gran and Megan from the PR company were going to fly over and see me at the Azores when I rounded the halfway mark. I was due there in a couple of weeks but the lack of wind was getting in my way and I disliked it with a vengeance. Still, there were little things that kept me occupied.
Monday, May 3, 10 p.m.
I have just seen the most amazing phosphorescence ever. I dipped the bucket overboard and the whole bucket glows. When I throw the water into the dead calm ocean it's like scattering a bucket full of fluorescent coals over the ground. The patch where this happened only lasted a couple of minutes even at the slow rate I was going (0.7 knots).
Tuesday, May 4
Once again, no wind today. Just drifted. Spoke to Dad last night on the phone, which made me feel great. Saw the lights of two ships in the distance last night. Another two today as well. Sun has just gone down and I am having brief visits by the phosphorescence again. It is strange cos one second it's there when I throw water on the surface and when I throw the next bucket in the same area (cos I am not moving) it's disappeared. It is a clear sky and the water is oily calm. The reflecting stars look like lost jewels beneath the ocean and two very bright planets are reflecting and look like the eyes of a deep sea creature staring up at me. I have bad images in my mind of a huge tentacle coming out of the water and pulling me down to where it came from, like something out of a movie. It is dead quiet and not much to do. I'm not very tired. I hope some emails come tonight.
A few days later the wind arrived again. Usually the area I was in had consistent wind but apparently, as I approached the Azores, a high-pressure system that usually sat permanently over the Azores moved towards me and becalmed Lionheart. It screwed up Roger's plan to make best advantage of the weather.
Each night I'd report my position to an American gentleman called Fred. He was on the airwaves every day, listening out for emergencies and helping yachts cross the Atlantic by monitoring their progress. The organisers of the Around Alone Race had put me on to him, so we spoke every night. It was sometimes a pain because I had to get up in the middle of the night at the time we'd arranged, which was evening where Fred was. My alarm clock didn't work as it was full of water from the knockdowns. Sometimes I'd miss our sked or I'd wake up twenty minutes beforehand and have to wait for Fred to come on air. One night after I'd finished giving my website address to Fred over the radio, another voice came over calling for a Venture Beyond vessel. I presumed he was referring to me, as that was my web address. I corrected him on my vessel's name and started chatting.
The caller, John, was on a boat called Dragonfly, which was relatively close to me, maybe 400 miles away. He was coming back from the Caribbean to the United Kingdom with another boat, Midnight Getaway, sailed by his friend Andrew and his wife. They were keen to know my story and what I was doing out there on my own. They, too, were h
eaded for the Azores for a couple of days’ rest so we organised a sked among the three of us. I loved the contact, which I'd badly missed since I lost contact with Peter and Neil and the others who had pulled into port in South America. Those chats with John and Andrew made me feel like I was back in life's mainstream, rather than out in the middle of nowhere, miles away from civilisation. It made me feel safer knowing yachts were constantly crossing the stretch of water I was sailing in.
Friday, May 7
I am now about ten days away from the Azores—my halfway point—and about to stare at my family face to face for the first time since leaving. A lot of things have changed already. My hair is now shoulder length, which itches my face and my skin a healthy brown, but more than anything, we will be looking at each other in a different light, a shared knowledge of experience that will bring each of them closer to me—something tangible that will link us. I will lock eyes with Mum and be able to relate as two experienced at washing clothes. My view will shift to Andrew and I'll smile with a better understanding of the guitar. Then I'll notice my brother and we will acknowledge each other's presence and care, which is so hard for brothers to do and it will all be because this trip has changed ME. I know how to handle a 34-foot pointed eggshell while veering down a wave half as high as the mast. I know how to be responsible for my own safety in the challenges this earth contains and I know that I can achieve anything I put my mind to.
But when I look into my grandma's eyes a week and a half from now, I'll be humbled by her aged stare and experienced face and the knowledge that there is still so much more to learn—after all, I've still got half a voyage ahead of me.
The excitement began to build as I neared the Azores. The weather was still favourable, even with the Azores high shifting towards me and becalming Lionheart for nearly a week. Mum and the rest were already there waiting for me.
Before I rounded the Azores I had to sail in an arc to pass through my antipodal point at latitude 38°18'N and longitude 35°22'W, the exact opposite point to my starting point at the Port Phillip Heads. A few days after that and I'd be at the Azores, where I would actually turn and head for home. I was certainly looking forward to that.