by Jesse Martin
Some time during the night I was woken by something I'd been expecting. It was a knockdown—a proper knockdown. It was dark and there were things flying about the cabin, with water that seemed to reach every corner of the boat. As Lionheart came back up with the sounds of water spraying from the roof area, I flicked on the light to find I was on top of my sleeping bag with two Tupperware containers underneath me, a couple of books and my guitar resting where my head used to be. Everything was wet! My soaking sleeping bag reflected the light as it glistened with water. Everything was so wet that I thought a porthole must have been smashed by the force of the wave. I stepped over the guitar and flicked the electric bilge pump on, as well as the second light above the navigation table.
‘Oh man, I HATE this,’ I said out loud as I steadied myself and started throwing the loose objects floating around the floor up into the V berth to clear the area. I was still dumbfounded as to where the water had come from. There were no broken portholes and everything else seemed in place.
I was taking in the mess when the second wave hit. It was as powerful as the first and I watched in astonishment as I saw it happen for the very first time with the lights on. Thankfully I was holding onto the vertical grab rail leading to the roof from the navigation table, and quickly secured my other hand on the handle leading out into the cockpit. The boat went over as I hung there. I held myself by putting my feet on the side of the galley cupboard while in front of me the navigation table opened up, spilling the charts, binoculars and other bits and pieces. Lionheart went well past 90 degrees—I estimate it would have been as much as 120 degrees. I felt the whole boat vibrating under the strains of the wave and I soon discovered where the water was getting in. Above my head came a stream of water like that from a faulty shower rose. It was icy cold and proceeded to drench me as the pressure of it sprayed out everywhere. Aha! It was the tiny gap between the hatch slide that was letting the pressurised water from outside get in, not a porthole.
I waited and waited for what seemed like an eternity but was in fact only a matter of seconds until the lead in Lionheart's keel brought me back up again.
Two knockdowns in five minutes. Was this the start of a sequence? The wind was howling outside and a glance at the wind speed instrument showed 50 knots, gusting to 55. It had got worse. Who knew when it was going to stop? I could very well expect more knockdowns so there was no way I was going outside with those freak waves coming in like that. The boat could get swamped as I was getting out or, worse, I could lose one of the clumsy washboards overboard when putting them back in place. That open space would be disastrous considering the amount of water that came in through a tiny gap in the slide.
I expected another knockdown soon. I didn't know whether the mast could handle the power of those knockdowns that had pushed it well into the water. I also thought of the shrouds I'd repaired only a few weeks before. Had I been careful enough during those calm days in the tropics when the flapping sail would send vibrations throughout the rig? Had I been pushing it too hard in the name of speed? I certainly hoped not but there was nothing I could do—except pray for the conditions to die down, which was precisely what I did.
My bedding was wet inside and out, including my mattress and pillow. I too was wet and shivering, so I stripped down to nothing and winced as I got under the cold, wet sleeping bag and flicked out the last light above my head. I rolled myself up into a ball with my head under the cover and breathed against my skin to warm up. I was all on my own in a situation that I'd no control over—I started praying.
It became a chant as I repeated it over and over to show my sincerity.
Boom! Another one!
I didn't bother looking, I just heard the water from the slide as it landed in the puddle that had formed on the floor.
‘Please God, stop this for me. Please, just make the weather get better, that's all I want. I don't want to go home. I mean, it'd be great to see everyone but I want to get there myself. Just make the weather better so I can do that, get there myself because when it's good out here, it's beautiful and I love it.’
I was woken another two times that night by knockdowns but they weren't as severe as the initial three, with more time between them. My suspicions had been correct. A small low had developed near me and caused the wind to get stronger than predicted. These lows form quickly and they also move quickly, so by the next morning there was a considerable difference.
It was light and sunny when I got up, confident that I could get the boat moving again. There was still a 25-knot wind blowing, but it seemed like an afternoon breeze compared to the previous night. My first look through the clear washboards revealed that the starboard solar panel, the side that was getting knocked over, had disappeared. I wondered what else was missing so I checked through the skylight and was glad to see the mast still standing.
My first priority was to get the cabin relatively comfortable and that meant drying everything. The stove wouldn't start. I changed the metho but it still didn't work. It had been thrown off its hinges and had landed upside down, spilling metho, the previous night. It took me half the day to find the blockage then drill it out and fill the hole before I could begin the huge task of drying things out.
A few hours later, once the cabin was nearing how it looked before the storm, I went outside and was shocked by what I saw. The genoa was hanging overboard to starboard with the forward stanchion snapped off and the lifelines drooping down. The pulpit had also taken a beating. The stainless steel frame had been bent right over to port until the starboard side frame was only an inch from the forestay. The genoa strapped to the lifelines must have caught the waves, bending the stanchion until it snapped and bent the pulpit. The starboard spinnaker pole had also disappeared while the pole on the port side sat there with nothing holding it in place.
First I got the genoa back on board and tied it to the port lifelines, careful not to go overboard on the starboard side as there were no lifelines. I then started the job of getting the snapped stanchion off the lifelines to cut it in the vice down below, then bend it round again and fit it back a little shorter than what it was before.
There was nothing I could do to bend the pulpit back into shape so I just left it and reattached the lifelines and re-tightened them. They were a bit wonky but would still do the job. The solar panel that had gone was one that didn't work any more anyway and the wind generator gave me enough power so I wasn't fazed at the loss.
There was one more front forecast to come through in a day's time then it looked clear for a while.
I'd made it through a force ten storm with a bit of damage but nevertheless I was through and racing to get out of the area before any others came about. I was so relieved to have calmer weather. But the challenges were far from over.
CHAPTER 9
The Final Run:
Cape of Good Hope to Australia
No power.
I stood on the deck scratching my head. It was three days after the storm and I'd finally got things in order, but then my power cut out for the first time on the trip. This was not a simple case of some corroded wires preventing me from getting a fix of Ben Harper. Not one single electrical thing would turn on. A check of the meter revealed a problem—down to only 7 volts. It was meant to read a healthy 12 volts, as it had done for eight months. I had no lights, no radar, no email and no radio.
The most frustrating thing was that the wind generator was spinning like mad in the bluster of the Indian Ocean, but wouldn't charge a thing. For some reason the power drained from the batteries, even without anything turned on. The only power on-board was in the satellite phone. Its battery was almost empty, to the extent it showed no bars on the battery meter. I figured I may have a few minutes of talk time, if that.
I slowly worked through all the symptoms during that day before giving Dad a very quick call at night. I drew a deep breath as the phone rang. When I heard him on the end of the line, I shot out, ‘Hi Dad, it's me. I've got a problem with the bat
teries and this phone battery is nearly dead. It's down to 7 volts and the wind generator won't charge. It spins but no amps are going into the batteries. There is a bit of corrosion along the line of the genny but there's a lot of corrosion all over the place. I'll call you in two hours, can you ask Richard what my best option would be—change to the spare wind generator, check all the wiring or something else? Also, please tell Mum that I'm fine but I can't send email. Speak to you later. Thanks.’
I hit the off button and took another deep breath. Dad had contributed the words ‘Hello’ and ‘Bye’ to the conversation.
I felt a bit sorry for Dad. I didn't speak to him that often but when I did I usually had something to say that he probably didn't want to hear. I couldn't begin to imagine what he was thinking after the abrupt call. It was the middle of the night when I made the call, as I was eight hours behind Melbourne. I'd timed the call to catch Dad at the start of the day, so he could make a few calls for me. He was able to get onto Richard, the electrician who had worked on Lionheart and fitted the switchboard before I left. I suspected the corrosion on the line near the generator was the cause of the problem, but I was not about to start repair work until I heard what Richard had to say.
There was nothing I could do except keep sailing until Dad called back. At least I didn't need any power for that! It was a fair night so I made good progress.
Dad's two-hour deadline soon passed, so I put in the call. He was ready to go, with notes of what he had to say in front of him before the phone cut. Richard believed there may have been a short in the generator line, draining the power and, at the same time, not allowing the generator to charge. It could be the corroded area I'd already identified, or it could be something blown inside the actual unit. Then again, it could be a problem anywhere. I thanked Dad, then went to sleep that night planning how I'd tackle the problem the next day.
As soon as my eyes opened I saw a bright, blue sky through the portholes. I leapt out of the bunk and into the day's challenges. It was amazing how I could fire up when I had something to do. These projects came along so rarely. My first job was to put the brake on the wind generator to stop it from sending a charge down the wires as I handled them. I grabbed my tools and took them to the lazarette, the hatch on the back seat of the cockpit, and unpacked all the spare ropes, buckets and rags.
The corrosion was around a join in the line that led under the deck. Some malleable tape had been wound around the join which theoretically should have sealed it from the salt. Something must have gone wrong. I unwound the tape and pulled the two ends apart. There was black and green muck everywhere. I spent ten minutes cleaning the strands of wire with a copper brush then wiped them with soldering acid to clean them properly. With this done, I wound the ends around each other and began the fiddly job of soldering them together. Once I was finished, I wrapped new tape around the exposed area and sealed it. A hop, step and jump down below and I hit the buttons on both the battery meter and wind generator brake. A wave of relief washed over me as I watched the amps increase on the little digital read-out as the generator built up speed.
I called straightaway on what was left of the phone battery and told Dad that it was only a short causing the problem, and not something more complicated. It was such a relief, not only for me and him but also for Mum, who didn't know what was going on. I waited until lunchtime when the batteries had enough volts to run the DC adaptor for the phone and gave her a call. She was so glad to hear from me. It was one of the worst moments of the trip for her, as the unknown loomed large in her mind, even if it was only for one day I think of how David Dicks was out of contact for ten days at one stage. Imagine how that would be for a mother.
I'd just had two of the biggest frights of the trip in less than a week: a full-blown storm with five knockdowns and the threat of no power. I felt as though I'd had it all by now. I was still only past the bottom of South Africa, but really looking forward to getting home. I'd always looked forward to my return, of course, but beforehand I was experiencing new things all the time. I was still enjoying it out here but I felt I'd come through the final test and I wanted to get home without any more weather challenges or equipment failure. Luckily, I had only the Indian Ocean between me and the people I wanted to see at home.
Wednesday, August 25
The finish seems so close yet it seems to be dragging on forever. I've actually numbered the amount of days left to go and cross one off every day.
Wednesday, August 25
Well, something just happened how I never expected it to. I was outside changing the genoa when I came back down into the cabin and found an email waiting. It was Mum congratulating and telling me at the same time that I was now eighteen years old—I would have forgotten about it!
It was actually only fifteen minutes past midnight at home when Mum sent the email, so it was still the day before my birthday where I was. It was a bit confusing.
I'd originally planned to be home by my birthday, but that wasn't to be the case. It made me more determined to pick up speed knowing that I could have been home if I'd been travelling at the speed that David Dicks had been doing.
As for the specialness of the day, there was none. It felt like any other day. I was reminded by the guys on the television show The Panel that I could vote and do other things, but out at sea it meant nothing. It was another example of something I'd realised—you can be in paradise with everything you ever wanted but it's not the same unless you have good company. I spoke to my friends over the phone who had congregated at my place for some chips and drinks but that was more of a media set-up than anything else, though it was great speaking to them and Mum. I got another email the following day from Mum. She'd just heard on the news that a tornado had hit South Africa causing chaos and doing millions of dollars of damage. Who knows what could have happened if I'd been in that area at the time?
Sunday August 29
Fifteen knots of wind, moving along at 4 knots with the sun glistening off the water. What could be better, you ask? Well, how about if I was going in the right direction! For the last four days I've had easterly winds making progress very slow as I can only point NNE or SSE because the wind is coming from where I want to go. The result is that my velocity towards Melbourne has only been 80 miles—that's a measly 20 miles a day.
To add insult to injury, I finished my last bag of food earlier this week and have been living off damper instead of the leftover dregs like peanuts and muesli. A few quick calculations tell me that about two weeks before I arrive home, all the flour will have run out forcing me to eat the stuff I don't like. Even more reason to get home quick.
It was between South Africa and Madagascar when my good progress stopped. I'd been moving along quite nicely, covering more than 100 miles a day, then I hit five days of light head winds from the east. All I could do was head a bit further north after having drifted down to the south since South Africa. There was nothing to do but turn my attention to other matters.
I was getting into a big damper-making phase of the trip. Instead of mixing the flour with sugar and milk and making pancakes, I just made a dough with water, flattened it out and cooked it thickly on the frying pan. I did this nearly all day every day during those five days. It was kind of frustrating not moving much but not as bad as it had been in the past. I had the memories of a force ten storm freshly embedded in my mind. This was a minor irritation compared to that.
Thursday, September 2
It was about two days ago, just after a squall had come through, that I was looking out over the water lost in thought. I'm sure this isn't any new philosophical theory or anything, but I was thinking about the similarities between events in life and a rain squall. When it's approaching it looks pretty mean, dark and gloomy. Then, all of a sudden, it hits with a torrential downpour sending you off course and out of control. You can't see anything around except mist and rain, but it doesn't last forever. Eventually, the first rays of sunlight seep through the tail end of the cloud.
The light refracting from the tiny droplets of water suspended in mid-air put on a show that is truly spectacular. At this point you are the closest you'll ever be to heaven on earth.
I saw one of the most spectacular shows of nature that day. Out to starboard was the most brilliantly coloured rainbow that I had ever seen. The dark clouds in the background made each and every colour stand out as if it were alive with electricity and it was so close that I could see the end fading into the water only about 30 metres away. I concluded that the heavy pot of gold must have sunk, but I didn't mind because I felt invincible to the passing squall, or any other nasty weather that this world could throw at me. The thing is, had I not encountered the squall, then I would have missed that feeling of jubilation. It made me think that bad times are just preparing the way for better things to come.
Sunday, September 5
Still not moving very well—maybe I shouldn't have caught and cooked that albatross! (Only kidding) My position is 38°41'S, 48°14'E. It's been another week of terrible progress! In the last sixteen days I've only averaged 50 miles towards Melbourne per day. I'm supposed to be in the strong westerly air flow but I've had varying, easterlies, and squally weather making constant movement in the right direction very hard.
The wind had picked up, which enabled me to turn my attention to my goal—the right-hand edge of the chart. When I got to that point I could then turn it over and marvel at the beauty of the other side, for on this side, up in the top right-hand corner, was a little yellow shape that cut across the corner of the page. This bit of land was Western Australia. I was not far from home. It's funny, but to think of sailing from Perth to Melbourne, a distance of about 1300 miles, seems like a long trip now that I'm home, yet there I was, looking at WA on the map and considering myself nearly there. But there were a few creases and folds in the map I had to sail over before I got there, including passing very close to a strange little island, Amsterdam Island, which sat on the Mid-Indian Ridge, a bit over halfway between South Africa and Australia. When I passed that I knew I was really on the home straight.