Lionheart

by Jesse Martin

  I was making my way across the Great Australian Bight, yet I felt as though I was out on the Bay, because home felt so close. I really needed to concentrate, as there was so much going on around me about my arrival, and the growing media attention, that it could have been quite easy to take my mind off trying to get Lionheart and myself home without assistance.

  Wednesday, October 20

  Yesterday I had the fishing line out and hooked an albatross but he got off himself before I pulled the line in.

  Friday, October 22, 10.52 a.m.

  Wind is being a pain. I'm at 39°10'S, 134°20'E.

  The conditions were much better than what I had across the mid-Indian, but it was still very much wintry conditions and not the best weather one could hope for.

  The excitement grew as I got busier and busier each day, taking media calls and keeping an eye on the forecasts to work out when I'd arrive. I was enjoying each day tremendously. It was like the day before your birthday—whatever you do is enjoyable because you know that tomorrow is your birthday which you can always fall back on to make you feel good. It was like this for me for a whole week. I wasn't in any rush to get home because I was just enjoying the thought of it. That may sound strange, because I desperately wanted to see my family and friends, but the anticipation of getting home was such an incredible feeling. It was similar to when I passed South Africa and knew there was a huge population not far away from me, but I kept going. Or even that feeling of anticipation when you're about to kiss a girl: the holding back, the power and discipline. I enjoyed having the choice and control and not rushing in.

  I was one week from home. I was still about 200 miles off the coast of South Australia, but in my mind, I was home. Pretty much as soon as I knew the forecast for the week the danger had pretty much gone, as there was little chance of rough weather. It's strange, but the finish pretty much fizzled out. There was no great realisation that the trip was suddenly over. I cannot put my finger on a point and say that was when I realised I was going to make it home. The homecoming gradually built up, through increased contact with home, and more frequent media interviews. There were a number of points which signalled the end. The first was as far as the Cape of Good Hope, when I moved to a new chart, which had the west coast of Australia on it. Then, later on, I came in radio contact with Perth. But I suppose, if there was one defining moment, it occurred below Adelaide, when the Herald Sun sent a plane to take a photograph of me. The last plane I'd seen was the lights of a commercial flight in the North Atlantic Ocean. I'd been excited by a rock in the water (Cape Horn) and now a plane flying in the sky. Was this a sign I'd been away for too long?!

  There had been a lot of build-up and preparation for the picture. The Herald Sun had been trying to organise pictures of me at various points throughout the trip, without success. The closest we got was at the Falkland Islands when I outran the RAF planes. The Herald Sun had been with me the whole way, and wanted to be the first to get the picture. (I have since learnt that to be the first is pretty much everything in the media.) After many calls over the weekend, a plane was dispatched from Melbourne on the Monday before my arrival. I was a bit sceptical of their chance of finding me let alone getting a good shot, as I had a 20-knot wind, which made for a pretty ugly sea.

  But, at about 1 p.m., I heard a noise I hadn't heard for a very long time—an engine. Suddenly, with a whoosh, the twin-engine plane swept over me. It did about nine sweeps, the last coming so close I could see the faces of those on board quite clearly. They were the first faces I'd seen since the pretend pirates in the Atlantic. It felt great to see them. I then knew that if I did get into trouble, I could be reached.

  I didn't realise at the time what that photograph would do. It was splashed across the front page of the paper, triggering an amazing reaction from other media. It seemed as though the starter's gun had been fired. Within days I was visited by all manner of planes and helicopters. The helicopters would hover right down low, sending Lionheart shooting off from their down draught.

  Tuesday, October 26

  A lot of crap over when I should come in. I'm coming in on Sunday morning but if the forecast is bad I'll come in the night before. I've decided that I need a codename so I can talk to Dad on the radio with some privacy. My codename will be Imajica, the name of Dave's boat, rather than Lionheart.

  As I passed the Victorian coastline I was able to pick up FM radio for the first time. It was strange to hear the new music at the top of the charts and the advertisements that hadn't changed since the year before. It was stranger to hear them mention my name on radio and that I was off Portland and for people to keep an eye out. I couldn't see land yet, so I very much doubt they could have seen me!

  What was stranger than hearing my own name on the radio was hearing my own dorky voice. I didn't realise I sounded like such a moron. I was listening to my new favourite—Radio Australia—and I caught a replay of an interview I'd done a day or two before. I'd like to blame it on the satellite phone but I'm afraid after so long without much talking, I sounded a bit strange!

  The air traffic got busier as I got closer to Melbourne, but I was happy to see them, as it reassured me I was closer to home. I forget how many choppers came out in total but I remember that one of them told me they had a surprise and I heard the question, ‘Have you got a song ready for us, Jess?’

  It took me a few seconds to recognise the voice over the static VHF but then I realised it was Dad. Another television station, not to be outdone, brought Mum out to see me, hovering above in a helicopter while I talked to her. It was uncomfortable having a conversation with Mum that I knew would be broadcast on television. There was the growing number of radio and press interviews, and I needed to finish my columns for the Herald Sun. I was starting to feel like an animal in the zoo. At one stage I was being advised to avoid one television station because another wanted to do something with me. It all sounded a bit silly and I was a bit annoyed. Plus, how was I going to get away from a helicopter? The wind died down in the last few days, so there were not many big waves to hide behind.

  On top of that, the planning for my arrival was well underway, even if I was convinced it was a lot of unnecessary fuss. I couldn't believe the trouble they were going to. For instance, Hayley White, who had sung at the AFL Grand Final, was going to sing the national anthem as I arrived. Then, after I was ashore and up in the clubhouse, the plan was for me to appear on the balcony and open a bottle of champagne. That was probably my biggest concern. It just didn't suit me to be spraying the crowd with champagne. That was something Grand Prix drivers do. I didn't see myself as that type of person. I just felt so stupid over all the fuss being made. I registered my protest with Barbara and Mum, but deep down I knew I had no choice. I'd just have to do it. I really wanted to turn up and see my family and mates, do the press conference, then go home and get on with my next project.

  The final week was certainly not turning out as I had imagined. I thought I'd be sailing at a constant speed. I'd see the coast, cross the line, see the people at the yacht club and go home in the one day. A lot more pure, if you know what I mean. That sequence stretched across a few days. I actually slowed down to delay my arrival until Sunday, but then the wind died down in Bass Strait.

  Over that last week, a debate began over when I should enter the Bay. There were only a few windows of opportunity for me to pass through the Heads. As they were so narrow—only a few miles apart—the force of the water as it surges in and out of the Bay on the tide can be horrendous. The fears were greater than when I left, as this was the point I'd finish the journey and the record attempt. Plus, I wouldn't have a motor to call on if I got into trouble.

  John Hill had contacted Gordon Reid, an expert sailor with many years of experience guiding boats in and out of the Bay, and I spoke to him a few times about what I should do. I wanted to come in on the ebb tide on the Sunday morning, and sail straight up to Sandringham. The worry, however, was with a crowd of people expected to greet
me, including the new Premier of Victoria, I couldn't risk leaving my entry until the last minute.

  Plus, as daylight saving began at 2 a.m., there was a sense that it would also add to the confusion. There was also some unsettled weather approaching, just to cloud the issue. John Hill urged me to come in Saturday morning at about 6.08 a.m., and spend the night inside the bay at Queenscliff. It made a lot of sense, but I had this niggly doubt in my mind that although the record attempt finished at the Heads, I'd be somehow cheating the people who came to watch. Plus, the media had been onto me for a week. Surely they would find me sitting in the Bay on Saturday afternoon?

  I continued to enjoy the small things those last few days, like washing my hair. I was basically out of fresh water except for 30 litres I'd collected from the deck while in the doldrums. I grabbed one whole 20-litre jerry can and warmed up half of it over the stove then plunged my head into the bucket. No joke—I used about half a bottle of shampoo in one wash, which didn't take long to turn the water a muddy colour. Then a rinse and a comb with a fork and I was feeling like new, if not looking like a Lassie dog.

  Thursday, October 28

  The wind has died and I'm off the coast of King Island. Can't see it yet.

  The water colour had changed from a deep, deep blue to a greenish colour as I got onto the shelf under Bass Strait. It was not long after that I noticed something more significant on the horizon—land. I'd thought about this moment for eleven months and it had finally happened. As Lionheart rolled up sideways on a wave, a thin strip of land was visible for a split second. I rushed outside and waited until I was on top of another wave and the horizon was clear of any other peaking waves and there, I saw it again . . . and again. It stretched a fair way across the horizon, and soon I could see a lighthouse at the northern end of the land. King Island!

  I felt like I was on my back doorstep. I'd sailed those waters to King Island with Dad on Bohemian more than a year ago.

  It was the Friday night when Roger told me that a front was possibly coming through. He said it wasn't looking too bad but the weather reports over the radio had it at up to 40 knots for the Saturday night then clearing slowly over Sunday. I continued to get a bit of pressure from home as everyone thought it was up to them to advise me when to come through. I knew that if it was too rough at the Heads when it was time to come through, then I'd just have to wait. There was nothing I could do. I could come through earlier on Saturday night when the winds weren't so bad but it would be dark then and probably more chance for something to go wrong. Roger maintained his usual laidback manner, saying that he couldn't see it being as bad as everyone else was forecasting. I decided to stick with my gut feeling and come in at first light on Sunday. I'd made a big call. But I continued to monitor the weather, and was ready to come in earlier if I had to.

  There was little wind on Saturday as I sat in the cockpit 30 miles directly south of the Heads, inching closer. Another plane came out and took some photos of me playing guitar as I sat in the cockpit. Andrew also came out in a plane to film the boat from the air to add to the footage I was doing myself. I let the fishing line out for something to do and before it was all the way out I had caught something. It was a fair-sized barracuda, which I threw back overboard.

  On the horizon I could see a fleet of spinnakers coming through the Heads. They got closer and closer until a couple of them passed quite close. Some of them were actually from Sandringham Yacht Club, so they said hi and quickly shouted about the preparations going on at the Yacht Club. I was home for sure—the quiet days of the trip were over.

  The wind died again in the afternoon as I was visited by the final chopper for the day. It was a quick interview because on the horizon loomed a mean-looking cloud that was coming in from the northwest. I knew the front was going to bring primarily westerly winds so I tried to get as far west as I could to save sailing directly into a headwind.

  It was the scariest cloud I'd seen on the whole voyage. It was very low and moving fast in one great big long line and followed by rain and fog. I pulled all the sails down and waited on the flat sea for it to hit. It didn't take long to get to me but only reached 20 knots, pouring rain for only ten to fifteen minutes. Once again Roger had been spot on. I waited for the rain and wind to ease a little then got out and raised some sail and started heading for the Heads—this was truly my final run!

  On Saturday night, in my mind, I was home. I was sitting less than twenty miles from the Port Phillip Heads, and I could see the lights of the towns dotting the Bellarine Peninsula. I could smell land for the first time in nearly eleven months. Strange as it sounds, I could smell grass, the bitumen of the roads and street lamps. Don't ask me what a street lamp smells like, as I can't describe it, but that was the picture in my head as I smelt that strange smell. I loved it!

  I was out in Bass Strait, yet everything seemed so close. Almost claustrophobic in fact. I was in a busy shipping lane, and tankers seemed to be skimming past only metres away, although they were quite some distance from me.

  I have never felt that the world was such a small place as I did that night. I'd already discovered how small the world was, and not just by sailing around it. When you can receive a note from an eight-year-old girl in a small country school followed by a letter from Bill Clinton, President of the United States, and another from my idol, Ben Harper, you realise there really are no boundaries on this earth.

  I had a bloody terrible night. The volume of shipping traffic required me to keep alert. I tacked back and forth, which was hard work, and I was getting more tired as the night dragged on. I was also trying to stay in a relatively small area to remain lined up for my run to the Bay.

  Above all, I was excited. God, was I excited! But I was also apprehensive about what lay ahead. When I headed out of the heads on 7 December, there was a big unknown ahead of me. I had that exact same feeling as I prepared to re-enter the Bay. What would the next few weeks, months or even years bring?

  I was also concerned about facing my family. I was unsure how I'd react, which made me uncomfortable. What would I say to them? How would I act? Would I hate being home? Would I be as normal as I thought I was? Would my friends treat me differently?

  I had changed. But was that because of the time I'd spent away and my experiences, or the fact that I was eleven months older? I definitely had a lot of time to think about things, and I think I understood a lot more about issues. Things like how the world works, the dynamics of business deals, the workings of the media. And, possibly, I got close to understanding a lot about myself.

  I sailed backwards and forwards, biding time until it started getting light. I'm not sure what time it was—it had to be a bit after 4 a.m.—when I finally grabbed the tiller and did what I'd wanted to do for a long time.

  I headed home.

  CHAPTER 10

  Beyond the Waves

  So when storm-clouds come sailing across your blue ocean

  Hold fast to your dreaming for all that you're worth

  For as long as there's dreamers, there will always be sailors

  Bringing back their bright treasures from the corners of earth

  But to every sailor comes time to drop anchor

  Haul in the sails, and make the lines fast

  You deep water dreamer, your journey is over

  You're safe in the harbour at last You're safe in the harbour at last.

  — ‘Safe in the Harbour’, Eric Bogle

  The night sky turned a dark blue which slowly spread from the east until it began to lighten as early morning was born. I'd positioned myself well and the wind was a nice 10 to 12 knots, pushing me from behind and slightly to the side. The best time to come through the heads was about 6.45 a.m., so I was making good time. I knew Dad, Barbara, John and others would be heading out, all on different boats and all excited—but not as excited as I was. The time just flew as I stood at the stern of Lionheart for the last time. It was my favourite position to stand, protected by the solar panels with
a good view of the boat as she sailed along. I had the VHF radio in hand to call the lighthouse keeper when I got close to entering the Bay.

  The colours of the morning were amazing. Maybe it was just the rare beauty of land or something undefinable. The hills behind Sorrento to my right were a misty dark colour, with the sea a rich dark blue as the sun began to light up the clouds. It was magic. The headwaters appeared to be on their best behaviour. No mountains of waters or swirling whirlpools. Just a gentle welcoming swell.

  I could gradually make out the lighthouse and the gap forming between the two points of land. I then saw the first of the boats. I didn't know how I should feel. This was the moment I'd been looking forward to for so long, yet I didn't know how to react. I was certainly excited because I'd soon be face to face with humans. Maybe the scariest part was how people would react to me. I'd never liked people looking at me, yet I was the reason those boats were coming out to the Heads.

  So much happened from that point on. Things quickly became a blur and rolled into one. I called the Lonsdale lighthouse keeper as I neared the heads.

  ‘Lonsdale lighthouse, this is Lionheart, can you see me yet? Over.’ I asked.

  ‘Roger that, Lionheart, yes I can,’ he said, quickly adding, ‘Can you get out of the way as there's some shipping coming through.’

  I was taken aback. It made me feel small, like I was out of place.

  I think the Coast Guard and Barbara's boat got out to me first, closely followed by other yachts and power boats, until more than a dozen crowded around. A couple of helicopters had also joined us by that stage.

  We travelled along together until the lighthouse called with those magic words. All right, you've just crossed the line.’ He told me it was 5.28 a.m., which didn't sound quite right. A few minutes later he called back with a correction—it was 6.28 a.m. when I crossed. It seemed I was not the only one a little confused by the change to daylight saving time!