Lionheart

by Jesse Martin

  A couple of hours later I found myself lying on the wall beside my bunk in the middle of a knockdown. Lionheart came back up, stalled for a couple of seconds, then picked up momentum again and went along as if nothing had happened.

  I got up, annoyed that all my possessions were soaking wet and in places they shouldn't have been. It made me feel worse because the conditions weren't that bad and were dying down. It must have been a freak wave that caught me in the wrong place at the wrong time. I did a quick tidy up then went outside without getting into wet weather gear because of the generally tame conditions. I slid the slide back and pulled out the washboards then stepped up and outside into the cockpit. I had the first washboard in my hand and was in the process of putting it back when a second freak wave hit. It got me on a better angle than the first and ploughed over the stern, sending water flying down below into the cabin and soaking me.

  I angrily put the washboards back in place and shut the slide while abusing the wave that had soaked me. I'd just got out of bed and was dripping wet with a stiff wind numbing my skin. I was not happy.

  My first aim was to keep the boat moving with the waves in case of any more large ones that could knock me down again if I was caught side-on. I wasn't too concerned because the conditions were relatively sedate. I went back to the wind vane to set it on course again, only to find the wooden vane had snapped off, forcing me to get another one. Once I'd screwed it in place again, I set the tiller up and started tweaking the lines until it could correct itself without my help.

  I tightened the tension on some lines that had been knocked by the first wave, then went back to bed in a soggy cabin. If it had been terribly rough then I could accept the knockdown, but because this wasn't the case, I found it hard not to be annoyed, simply because I wasn't expecting it to happen. Isn't it strange how our expectations change the way we look at things!

  I had a Walkman radio with me which wasn't much use in the middle of nowhere as there were no radio signals to pick up, but I could play tapes on it. I had a few tapes that friends had given me, including two tapes of seafaring songs including the aptly titled ‘Six Months in a Leaky Boat’ by Split Enz, a tape of old English speaking which came with my literature books and a tape my friends Sarah and Carolyn had put together. I played this one over and over again while standing outside in the cold thinking about how home wasn't all that far away. I could really taste the closeness.

  A few days after my last knockdown I was doing the rounds of all the shrouds and stays, tightening them up. The last time I'd done it was just after the Azores. When I got to the port diagonal shroud, from the mast spreader to the stern, I didn't like what I saw.

  Where the fitting that connects to the deck was joined to the rigging wire was discoloured with orange rust. Most of the shrouds had rust on them, but this was different. Three of the outside strands of wire had snapped off completely.

  It was obviously still holding, but when it came under maximum pressure I didn't have complete faith that it would hold. If one stay let go, that put more pressure on the others, which could follow suit. It was something I'd been fearing, and trying the whole trip to avoid by minimising stress every way I could. The only solution was to replace the shroud.

  The job of replacing it didn't concern me. It was pretty straightforward. What did concern me was whether other stays would soon do the same because I only had a limited number of spare wires and fittings. I was comforted by one thought. Maybe the knockdown a few nights before had placed extra stress on the inner forestay carrying the no. 3 jib which was out the starboard side.

  With the glimmer of hope that I could blame the knockdown and that it wasn't something I could expect to happen to all the shrouds, I got my equipment ready. The conditions had died down and it was a good day to get the job done.

  First, I had to slacken the tension on the opposite side of the mast and undo the faulty shroud from the bottom, leaving it loosely attached. Then came the job of climbing the mast. I'd pulled all sails down and Lionheart was bobbing about, side-on to the waves. I started to climb the mast, clipping my safety harness to each of the steps as I got higher. By the time I reached the top, the sway of the boat was magnified so much that as the boat went from one side to the other, I was out over the water. I bear-hugged the mast until the rocking slowed to a manageable rate that I could work with. I pulled out the split pin and undid the second larger pin that held the shroud to the mast, then threw the wire overboard to ensure it wouldn't hit the deck and crack the fibreglass.

  Back on deck, I measured the old shroud against my new wire, and cut it to length, struggling with bolt cutters for fifteen minutes to do the job. I screwed the norseman fittings to each end and connected my new shroud to the deck. The moment of truth had arrived—would it fit? Had I measured correctly? I was very worried, because I only had enough wire left to replace another shroud. I climbed the mast again and attached it at the top, then came down and tightened it at the bottom. It was a perfect fit. When it was done I was again relieved I'd overcome something that could have proven to be a major problem.

  Sunday, July 25

  I've taken up the act of inhaling the smoke from a smouldering match. Cos the sea air is so pure I don't get much variation in the odour department. It was when I started using matches for the first time to light the stove that I got a whiff of smoke which brought back memories of land and campfires and trees. I now indulge in this little reminder each time I light the stove. It brings back memories—a bit like looking at photographs.

  While in the Southern Ocean, I'd use the stove not only for cooking but as a heater to keep the cabin warm. I'd taken plenty of metho, enabling me to light the stove nearly every morning. When I was outside during a squall getting a reef into the sail quickly I'd often get quite wet, so the stove was nearly always draped with sopping clothes. The leaks in the cabin worsened throughout the trip until I had three tea-towels on permanent drip duty, wiping drips before they landed on my computer or the back of my neck as I worked at the navigation table. It was a constant battle. I'd squeeze the soaked tea-towel onto the floor, which was home to a permanent puddle from my boots and clothing. When the wind was up or it was raining, most things down below were wet. It needed at least two days of sunshine or no waves crashing over the boat for the floor to dry out and the tea-towels to become stiff and dry. There was never a moment when something wasn't drying out!

  I began to get some rumblings from home. As I had to take the long detour to the west of the high-pressure system sitting in the South Atlantic, there was a growing concern that I wasn't going to be home by 6 October, which meant I'd miss David Dicks’ age record. I think some people thought I was deliberately sailing a safe route at a comfortable pace. It really got to me. The most important thing to me was that I got home without doing any damage to the boat. I could see the wear and tear on Lionheart, and if there were any more breakages then I'd possibly be forced to go to South Africa. I felt compelled to fire off an email to vent my feelings.

  Friday, July 30

  Everyone seems to think I'm about to give up or something. If I don't get back before the age record, then it won't really bother me as people might expect. For example, Kay Cottee carries on about how her trip was her life's dream. That's very well but I don't feel the same. Not that I don't appreciate the opportunities I've had. I consider myself very fortunate in every respect but every project in my life will be the most important thing at that particular time. I'm already dreaming about the next one. I've got almost everything I've wanted out of this. I'm not going to give up though, it's the last thought on my mind. I was a bit annoyed at the situation the other day with the rogue wave, but I have to wear it and do what has to be done. I'm trying to get home as fast as possible to see everyone, but I'm making a conscious decision not to push the boat just to get back ‘in time’. I've made it this far by taking it easy. I'm big on principles and I feel if I compromise my principles now, then my success in future exploits or even the
rest of the trip will be compromised. I value my conservative principles more than the record.

  So I appreciate the support and I'd like to assure you that everything is under control. I should make it home before Oct. 6 but if I don't I'll blame the wind.

  I think I made myself pretty clear. There was not much I could do but continue on my way, and get home when nature let me.

  Subject: Message from Inmarsat-C mobile

  Date: Wed, 4 Aug 1999 14:13:51 GMT

  From: Lionheart To: Trav Heenan

  Hi ya Travo,

  I've worked out that in 10 days I should be under South Africa and be on the final run home across the Indian. There is truly nothing new to say. Been fine-tuning a song on the guitar, fine-tuning my pancake flipping skills and sleeping. A couple of electrics have stopped working and as today is quite calm, I'll get into the back of the switchboard and see if I can figure it out. ETA still the end of Sep. So get that beer ready!

  TNT

  JM

  I was getting across the South Atlantic in true Southern Ocean style—quickly.

  I was also battling a leak in the cabin where the running backstays had been added to the boat before I left. That in itself was no big deal, except the water dripped into the electrical switchboard. I first noticed the leak after Cape Horn when I needed to repair some corroded wires. I'd been trying to halt the leak with Sikaflex, but to no avail.

  It had already claimed some victims. The first casualty was the wind instruments which told me wind speed and direction. I could live without those. Next, my tiller pilot wasn't getting any power. But when, in a few days time, I tried to put some music on and nothing happened it was definitely time to do something about it. I discovered more wire in the switchboard had corroded, shorting the appliances. I cleaned and rejoined the wires before treating them with anti-corrosion paste and hoped it would get me home.

  Subject: great!

  Date: Fri, 6 Aug 1999 17:12:07

  From: Trav Heenan

  To: Lionheart

  MM,

  Greatnews YourSoClose! BoyzHavBinDownThePro m LAstWeek.

  SawASeal+ASnak.AwesumTime.WillHav2CumW en UGetBac

  C yaMate,

  TH

  Because Trav had his email direct rather than going through Barbara, he had to foot the bill, so he came up with short cuts like this.

  I was only about a week away from the Cape of Good Hope when Roger slowed me down, as a set of fronts around the area were causing trouble. They soon swung in front of me, so Roger told me to get to the Cape as quickly as possible, round it and get out.

  It was kind of exciting heading towards an area I knew had many people living in a big city. With Cape Town only about a week's sailing away, it was comforting to know I could be on land in a week if I wanted to. On the other hand, it made me feel good that it was near, yet I had the power to sail right past with only the finish line to focus on.

  Soon I was three days away from Cape Town, the closest I came to it, before I changed course a little further south to miss the Agulhas Plateau and minimise the chance of encountering bad weather.

  Subject: Wx 246

  Date: Fri, 13 Aug 1999 03:46:33

  From: Roger Badham

  To: Lionheart

  It looks like you have a series of fronts heading towards you. Best to stay about 40. Further south looks like it's worse but you don't want to be further north either. Best to stay where you are or a bit further south.

  Date Pos Wx

  13/8 40/14 WNW-WSW / 25-35kts

  14/8 40/17 SW-W / 15-25 kts

  15/8 41/19 WNW-SW / 25-35 (40?) kts

  16/8 40/22 SSW-WSW / 25 kts

  Roger

  I knew it could be a wet and wearing week as I passed under the horn of Africa so I got everything ready. I gathered food that was easy to prepare and stored it in the galley for ready use, set out my clothing and made sure the sheets to the storm sail were in place. The storm sail was already hanked on and I also attached the halyard to it and tied it down with a line ready to release when needed. Finally, I tied the genoa to the starboard life lines.

  The first front came through the next day, an extension of the stiff wind I was enduring at the time. I grabbed the anchor rope, tied knots in it for resistance, and dragged it from the back of the boat to help keep Lionheart on course by making her a little more sluggish on broaching waves. There was little else to do, except spend many hours stuck down below on standby in my wet weather gear, while standing up, strapped in place by the galley life line and reading Lord of the Rings.

  The wind died down as the first front passed during the night and it started to rain, a sign that the front was coming to an end. The rain calmed the breaking waves down until they were still large but more fun as they didn't break.

  The next morning was relatively warm. I was still rugged up but the air and wind didn't have the same bite it usually had. It built up again during the day, bringing warm air from the land mass north of me, as I was directly under South Africa. This front was more of a concern as it not only brought the smell of land and a humid feel, but produced large thunder clouds that shot daggers of lightning into the water as they passed by. It was dark, so I stayed outside to keep an eye on the menacing clouds. When Lionheart was in the boat yard being prepared I put a grounding plate through the hull in case of a lightning strike. But even that was no guarantee I'd be safe if I was hit. The only way to find out would be to take a strike, which could smash through the fibreglass if that meant a shorter route to the water. I stood on deck watching the clouds and hoping like hell they wouldn't come near me. I felt like I was in a movie with that beautiful Enya song ‘Storm in Africa’ going around in my head.

  I had the deck light on as I stood watching the storm. It shed some of its light out over the deck and onto the water passing by. Off to starboard I noticed something white sitting in the water. As the boat got closer I realised what it was. Sitting there, with its wings tucked away, riding out the bad weather was a big albatross. It was uncanny. It just sat there as I passed by and disappeared into the night behind me. I wondered if he was as surprised as I was.

  The weather died down a little during the night and the cold came back again. I was really looking forward to the end of the fronts. At least I was making good distance and getting out of this danger area, even though the conditions were pretty yuk.

  By lunchtime of the 15th, the winds had picked up again but this time they were peaking at 40 knots and the waves were getting bigger and breaking more often with greater force. I was surfing down the waves and travelling too quickly to keep the boat under control. It was time to get the proper drogue out, rather than use the anchor line that was still out the back.

  The wind was getting up to 45 knots and I was having to hand-steer with the drogue trailing behind. The cockpit was often swamped by white water that would tumble in from the crests of waves, drenching me.

  It also scared the hell out of me. I started to get the feeling that something wasn't right. The wind was stronger than Roger had predicted and was increasing at an uncanny rate. This had happened only once before on the trip, just past New Zealand when I hit the force eight gale. I figured an unpredictable low had formed on top of me in only a few hours. Roger had no way of knowing it was going to happen. I could only hope the winds wouldn't get any stronger.

  I was getting very cold in the cockpit but I couldn't go down below as the wind vane couldn't handle the steering required to keep Lionheart heading downwind with the waves. It was starting to get dark and I found myself in a conundrum. I was cold and it was getting dark and the way things were looking, I really didn't want to be outside in the dark for fear of waves washing me overboard or knocking me down. On the other hand, I needed to be outside to hand-steer and keep on a safe angle with the waves.

  I was stuck. I knew what I wanted to do, which was go below and go to sleep to forget the terrible weather I was in. It was definitely the strongest wind I'd come across and th
e waves were getting BIG. It was hard to estimate how big they were but when the biggest of them came along, I knew a small yacht shouldn't be out there with them. I'd say they were 10 metres high, from trough to crest, but it was hard to say. They could easily have been more or less, but it didn't really matter as I was starting to get worried!

  Was this going to keep increasing and turn into a hurricane? Not knowing what was ahead was the scary part. At the time Lionheart was handling them quite well. I was getting wet and thrown about and there was a real danger of being thrown overboard, but apart from those ‘maybes’, I was doing well. Sort of.

  I was still trying to decide what to do when the answer was given to me. Lionheart started picking up speed and I sensed something different about how the tiller responded. I looked behind and saw that the line attached to the drogue was limp. The drogue line had snapped, which meant I had no brake. I faced a terrible battle to steer Lionheart with the waves, and I'd surely get hypothermia outside all night, so I decided to drop sail and sit out the storm in the cabin by laying a hull.

  As soon as I stopped the boat by turning side-on to the waves and tying the tiller off, the noise dropped and the boat didn't rock nearly as much. It was quite a comfortable position to be in except that the wind blowing on the port side pushed the boat on quite an angle to starboard. I tidied up outside then checked for any breaking waves before opening the hatch and going down below.

  It wasn't all that nice in the cabin as it was darker and I was dripping wet and shivering. I lit the stove to warm up and got a tea-towel, which was still wet, and wiped the excess water off my face and hair. After I'd warmed up a little and hung my jacket up to drip, I got out of my overalls and boots, leaving me in thermal underwear and wet socks. I hung the socks up over the stove and turned the flame out. I had to do this because often it would blow out and leave the metho dripping until it overflowed onto the floor. I wiped my wet feet on the outside of the lee sheet and stepped into the bunk and under the sleeping bag. It was moist from the salt and the drips above the port holes but after a while my body heat dried it out. I flicked the light off above my head then lay still listening to the boat and the waves as I tried to get to sleep and prayed that it would die down.