by Jesse Martin
I'd called the distributor in Perth earlier in the day to discuss the procedure, but I hadn't seen the guts of the thing yet and wasn't really sure what I'd find inside. The first step was to get the existing sail off the track leading up the forestay, which I did by unfurling the sail, letting it flap in the wind while I let the halyard go and pulled the sail down off the track. Half of it fell in the water but I was able to get it up on deck to begin the monstrous job of folding it up as tightly as possible, which was not easy in such a small space.
It wasn't perfect but, after 45 minutes of scrambling about, it was folded. I then organised my tools and started to unbolt the unit. I took the different-sized screws and bolts out and put them in a Tupperware container until I was able to pull both sides of the drum off and disassemble the section holding the bearing. The main mechanism was taken off, leaving the task of getting the tubing off the forestay. This proved the most arduous job of all, as I had to undo the forestay which held up the mast from the bow. I slackened off the backstays to take the pressure off, then slowly unscrewed the base of the forestay. With the small waves rocking Lionheart, the swaying of the mast was magnified, sending the aluminium tube along the forestay snaking like a fireman's hose out of control. I undid the last of the thread holding the forestay and bear-hugged the end as I used all my concentration to hold the jerking end. The last thing I needed was to have it flick into the air and knock me unconscious. I grabbed the alien key from my mouth as I reached up to where the first section of tubing was joined and undid the grub screw ever so slowly. Once I had the filthy screw and alien key in the safety of my mouth again, I started to slide the first 2-metre section off, grunting as I went. I was not sure if I was doing it the right way. It got halfway off the end of the forestay then it wouldn't move. Not one bit.
I yelled at it. ‘Get off you stupid thing! Don't you dare stuff up on me now, look at the position I'm in!’
No matter what I said, it still wouldn't move. I was having a hard enough time holding on to the slippery, greased end of the tubing and wearing the skin off my hands, let alone having to get the section of tubing off. I rested my forehead on my arm which was going up and down with the jerking and cried in frustration. I simply didn't know what I was going to do. I had no answer this time. For every question Mum had asked, I always came back with something that sounded good, even if she didn't know what I was talking about. But this time I'd been caught out. I just didn't know what to do next!
I had a bit of a cry then, and started to hate the furler with a passion. My emotions were so strong I decided to set my own path. I analysed the situation and came up with what I hoped would be the solution, which required a piece of rope and a hacksaw. I was still gripping tightly to the forestay to prevent it flying off, and I needed to tie it down so I could get the tools. With one hand I slowly undid a piece of rope tied to the lifelines. The knot seemed to go on forever. Amid my frustration, the alien key slipped from my mouth and fell towards the water. I heard it clink as it hit the middle rail of the pulpit and luckily it bounced back onto the deck. It would have been a disaster to lose that, as it was the only alien key I had that would fit those grub screws.
Once I'd released the rope, I secured the flying forestay and tubing to the bow so I didn't have to hold it any more. I was free. I got up and stretched my back and muscles and steadied myself on the railing while the blood momentarily drained from my head. I grabbed the hacksaw and cut open the tube to see why it had jammed on the forestay. I soon discovered a series of plastic separators in the tube that had caused the problem. They were promptly removed with pliers. I undid the rope and, with one end of the tubing sinking through the water, continued removing the tubing. It was hard work and I didn't want to get over-confident, but as each piece of tubing came off and the next one lowered, the forestay became lighter and easier to handle.
Finally, with all of them off and all the stays tightened again, I hanked on the new sail and raised it for the first time.
WOOO—bloody—HOOOOOOOO! Yeah! The job had taken me all day.
Once moving again I sat back and marvelled at the shape of the new sail and watched the water pass by. I was exhausted but buzzing after slaying the dragon that seemed too big for me only a couple of hours before.
I'd been tested and I'd pulled through. The feeling was unbeatable. I got straight on the phone to Dad.
‘Guess what? It's fixed!’
I reckon he was glad to hear that. I was bloody glad saying it.
It was another of my highs for the trip. I was happiest and most appreciative when it had been blowing a gale and was starting to die down. It may have been 30 knots but I appreciated the fact it could only get better as opposed to being 20 knots and getting worse. Plus, I felt I'd really achieved something by making it through the gale. This was how I felt after tackling the furler problem. There was nothing special or unusual (apart from the obvious) about the day, yet I knew I'd achieved something which made all the difference. I felt worthwhile and had everything in the world to be excited about. It was all in my head, I know, but on a trip like that, all I had was my mind working with what was going on around me.
The southeasterlies kicked in, which really wasn't the ideal wind, as southeast was the direction of South Africa, where I wanted to go, forcing me to sail as close to the wind as I could. I headed in a south—southwesterly direction, which wasn't really the ideal direction, as I was actually getting further away from where I wanted to be. A high-pressure system that sat in the South Atlantic, known as the South Atlantic High, was sending winds from the direction I wanted to go, pushing me further west, back the way I'd come, up the coast of South America. They were the trade winds I'd loved so much on my way up the Atlantic but going into them was uncomfortable compared to the previous weeks of easy, downwind sailing.
The boat was handling it fine but I spent a lot of time in the cabin because of the water that came off the bow when ploughing into the waves and spraying all over the cockpit.
Because of the increased amount of seawater landing on the boat and the constant sunshine, the amount of salt on deck also increased dramatically. It was everywhere, forcing me to rinse my hands with precious fresh water before opening up the computer or the video camera for fear of contaminating the electronics.
One night as Lionheart sat becalmed, I stumbled out of bed and clambered up the steps to stick my head outside to check for any shipping lights. As I scanned the horizon I was startled to see a black bird sitting on the top of the outside instrument panel. He wasn't taking much notice of me so I decided to say something to him.
‘Oy, ay, you,’ I said, but he only looked at me, turned and faced forward again. He was less than a metre away from me yet he wasn't scared by my voice. I reached out, expecting him to fly off. Not that I minded him being there, but I was curious as to why he wasn't scared. I reached out but he stayed where he was. I took one step further and touched his wing. With a slight flutter he turned and faced the other way then, with a hop and a flap of his wings, he jumped on the lifelines and settled his feathers again beside three of his mates who I hadn't noticed until then. The thought suddenly hit me. I was more than 500 miles from land. Could this possibly be a bird that hadn't had any contact with people, so hadn't found a reason to be scared of them yet? I could just imagine him having flown the oceans all his life. I was stoked.
My hair had started to annoy me since the wind picked up. It was disgusting, with clumps of thick salt-riddled hair stuck together. It would blow in my face, tickling my nose and blocking my view. Something had to be done. I could cut it off and look even more of a dero or I could tie it back. As all my caps had already blown overboard, I decided to make a head band to keep the growth under control. I tackled my new task with gusto and soon enough I was proudly wearing my new piece of clothing. It made all the difference, and I wore it every day until my return, only taking it off when I slept.
Saturday, June 26
Just passed the course I
took on the way up over two months ago. Strange to think I've already been here! Wind is still on the nose and I'm getting quite close to South America. Roger says a bit further and it should free up a bit. Hope so.
Tuesday, June 29
The ETA for home should be the 8th (earliest) to the 28th (latest) of September.
A week later things started to change. I was approaching Trindade Island, off the coast of Brazil, in the same direction that the winds were making me go. I was 200 miles away from Trindade when I got the detailed chart out and had a close look at my course. The way the winds were blowing, I'd pass to the west of the island in about three days and I was happy about the distance I'd remain from it. Over the next two days the wind freed up a little and I could point more in the direction I wanted to go. This brought my estimated route considerably closer to the island, but still far enough away not to be concerned about crashing into it. When you have been in the middle of the ocean for so long, you become nervous about sailing within 100 miles of land.
The following day, on 7 July, I was listening to The Doors while fiddling with the switchboard that had been playing up, when I came up on deck and there, off the port bow, was a high volcanic island just sitting there as it had done, no doubt, for thousands of years. I was blown away. I had to reshuffle my mental filing cabinet as this was totally unexpected. I thought I was far enough away that I'd be well out of view of the island. I expected my next sighting of land would be some part of Australia. But no, this tiny 3-mile-long island, which I'd been trying to avoid for the last three days, had popped up into view and changed all that. Talk about a shock.
Subject: Message from Inmarsat-C mobile
Date: Fri, 9 Jul 1999 16:55:29 GMT
From: Lionheart
To: Katie Head
Dear Katie,
Well I was going to surprise you with a phone call cos the costs are down to 41/2 bucks a minute (instead of 15) but I couldn't find the envelope with your # on it. So could you tell me? It won't be a surprise now but then again you won't know when I'm gonna call so maybe it will, sort of. My ETA for home is between the 8th and the 28th of Sep, but at the rate I'm going now, it could be much longer. Hopefully I can catch up in the Indian Ocean.
TNT
Jesse
Subject: ring ring!
Date: Mon, 12 Jul 1999 13:45:29 GMT
From: Katie Head
To: Lionheart
Hey Jesse,
Well you are sounding happy at the moment! That's so cool about the cost of phone calls!
But try to call somehow when it is night time here otherwise I won't be home and not on weekends OK! That's if you still want to call!
Your ETA is smack bang through the holidays! Hopefully you get back for the snow!
My hair at the moment is in plaits all over my head! Very cool and very easy!
Well I got to go as it's late and I have to go back to school tomorrow! But I have Wednesday off!
YAY!!
Speak to you soon.
Katie
I was using the Iridium phone more because of the drop in costs. I think I ended up speaking to Katie for half an hour! Email was still my main form of communication because it gave me time to write what I was thinking without wasting time and money trying to think of what to say on the phone. Plus, I couldn't afford to call all my friends.
I got the news that my website had received 400,000 hits since it had come on line a few weeks after I started. That's 17,650 separate visitors, which is amazing. Many of those were school kids, as the address was on the bottom of my Herald Sun column. They could email questions to me, which I received weekly, and made me laugh every time I got them. Here's a sample of some of the questions.
Where are you heading?
Are you all rite? (sic)
Have you come close to any icebergs yet?
Will you have time to email us?
Have you been seasick?
What do you do in your spare time?
Have you seen any sea animals?
We want to know if you are having fish for lunch today? We will arrange home delivery of some chips to you if you are.
How many in your family?
What is the largest wave so far?
What is the best meal you have had so far? (Cheddar cheese on Vita Weats with an iced coffee milk.)
I can't wait for you to get back because my Dad has promised me the day off school to see you return. (Unfortunately I came back on a Sunday, so I presume he had to go to school the next day.)
How will the Easter Bunny find you?
Do you have a hammock or a bed?
What footy team do you go for?
Have you nearly been swept overboard yet?
What temperature will it be when you arrive at the equator?
Do you ever wish you could go back in time and stop yourself from going on this trip?
Have you seen any messages in a bottle?
Are you getting any money out of this?
How does it feel to be the only person in the world not to have seen The Phantom Menace?
I tried to answer all the questions I received, but as the PR company was getting up to 400 questions a week, it became hard. But every question was very welcome, and gave me reason to think about why I was doing the trip.
I continued steadily south continually monitoring my course on the chart as the wind allowed me to sail my chosen path, until I was only 20 degrees off heading straight for the Cape of Good Hope, South Africa. This was the fourth of the southern capes I had to round on my trip.
From this point on, the air took on a new kind of smell. It began to have the feel of the Southern Ocean. It was noticeably colder, bringing back memories of the first leg of my journey, which seemed so long ago. I started seeing albatrosses again, which I'd missed in the tropics and it was time to get out some warmer clothes and have my wet weather gear on standby again. I then realised I'd done something really stupid.
When heading up the South Atlantic all those months ago I dried out my jackets and overalls in the warm weather then packed them in garbage bags which were stored in the bow of Lionheart with the food and rubbish. But I couldn't find them anywhere. I re-searched the black rubbish bags up the front and checked all the containers.
What started as an incredulous suspicion grew to full-blown realisation. I'd thrown the bag containing the clothes to Mum at the Azores, thinking it was rubbish. Of course, Mum didn't check through my rubbish, and threw it straight into a dump-master. So much for $2000 worth of really good Musto Offshore gear! I was left with one set of Musto trousers and two sets of snow gear, given to me by a company from Western Australia. They were better than nothing, but certainly didn't have the protection of the Mustos. I was really mad because it had been such a waste, and it was all my fault. I still had a long way to go at 40°S in the middle of winter before I got home. Damn it!
I was between 30° and 35°S when the wind changed to come from the southwest. This was another milestone, for this was the westerly airflow that would take me all the way to my doorstep at the heads of Port Phillip Bay. I was glad to have the wind coming from behind once again.
Thursday, July 22
It's back! And Roger says this is it for sure, the start of the westerlies. A lot more albatrosses flying around, which gives me the feeling of returning to my long lost home, even though it has only been a few months.
I had rounded the corner and was in the home straight. I reckoned I could nearly see the finish line up ahead. There were no more bends to make or bits of land to dodge, except for South Africa, but from that point the course would hardly alter.
I continued on my way on a course taking me just south of South Africa. I still had two-thirds of the South Atlantic to cross because of the awkward course I was forced to take when heading south but that didn't matter, as I had the wind and currents with me. I was moving very well compared to the beating into the wind I'd been doing while heading south.
The aim was t
o pass South Africa at 40-11°S to leave at least 300 miles between land at my closest point. It was certainly not a case of skirting around this cape, like it was with Cape Horn, as the Cape of Good Hope sat at only 34°.
The Cape of Good Hope may be the best known cape around that area but it was not the furthest south. That honour belonged to Cape Agulhas, the southernmost tip of South Africa. Directly south of this was the Agulhas Plateau, a huge underwater shelf many miles offshore. The water here was quite shallow, at about 770 metres, compared to 5—6 kilometres depth in the open ocean, and could prove to be a major pain in the arse when the weather got bad. Down the east side of Africa flowed a current of up to 5 knots. When this hits a strong wind coming from the opposite direction in the shallow water of the Agulhas Plateau, all hell could break loose. It could produce high and steep waves, rather than the big, long waves of deep water. These steep waves can split a tanker in two when the bow and stern rest on the crest of separate waves, leaving the middle unsupported and causing it to break in half. However, a small vessel such as Lionheart can zip up and down the big waves like a cork.
In much the same way as Cape Horn, the African land mass also squeezed weather pressure systems into tight spaces, causing high winds to whip around the Cape of Good Hope.
I had another knockdown, the first since the Falkland Islands. It had been blowing around the 35-knot mark during the day but Lionheart had been handling the conditions well and the waves were starting to subside. It was probably 25 knots and the breaking waves were becoming less and less frequent. I was confident the conditions were abating so I went to bed content that my only job that night would be to get up to put more sail up as the wind died down.