by Jesse Martin
I then saw Dad, and could see the relief on his face as he sailed beside me on Bohemian and we spoke over the VHF. I also saw his fiancee Suzie for the first time—there were new things everywhere.
There was no feeling of euphoria that I'd finished the trip, just a sense of relief. The nurturing of Lionheart and my approach of not pushing the boat had paid off. It had been worth the effort to pull down the sails as they jarred the rig in the doldrums. I was glad I'd stopped the boat during the gales and taken an extra day to get home rather than not at all.
I was relieved that I was no longer bound by the rules of the trip. From the moment I passed through the Heads, 328 days before, I had this thing hanging over me. It had been a strange situation out at sea—I had no rules about when to go to bed, when to get up, to do homework or any of the other thousands of rules that govern our lives. I was in control. Yet, I had this all-governing rule hanging over me that I had to do the trip non-stop and unassisted. There were times when I'd have loved to pull into Brazil, the Azores or Cape Town, but I simply couldn't. I was so free on one hand yet, on the other, I wasn't at all.
Now I was free! I could do what I wanted—jump overboard, take someone on board. I could also finally receive things, which I gleefully did when I was handed a freshly cooked hamburger (which I'd requested), two pizzas, several cans of Coke and a packet of Tim Tam biscuits.
The realisation that I'd just sailed around the world never entered my mind.
I'd always been confident I would complete the trip, especially after the previous weeks of sightings, so crossing the line had no special meaning in a way. If I was constantly worried, or my equipment was failing, it may have been a different story, but to achieve what I wanted to do in the future, I knew the record was very important. As it turned out, I was three weeks older than David Dicks. However, I was able to complete the trip unassisted.
I dropped the sails to be towed the 40 miles towards the Sandringham Yacht Club. Everything for the day had been organised and I had to arrive there at a certain time. It was pretty much out of my control. I wanted to sail if I could, but at the time I just went with the flow.
In hindsight I could have sailed that leg easily, as I dropped the line about 10 miles from the Club three hours ahead of schedule. I was in a real bind. I couldn't just lob into the Club, as much as I wanted to. I ended up sailing in circles, surrounded by dozens of boats, and the ever-present helicopters. I'd just sailed around the world, but I was forced to sit 2 miles offshore before I was allowed home. I started to twig at the level of attention I was receiving. All around me were boats, battling what were not the most pleasant sailing conditions.
Sitting in the Bay while boats milled around me and people yelled greetings was a bizarre experience. I could see something along the shore line and cliffs surrounding the Club. Only when I got closer, after being given the call to come in, did I realise that something was thousands of people who had come to see me.
I couldn't believe my eyes. I'd expected a big crowd, as David Dicks had come home to a large welcome, but I didn't expect the sea of people before me. Where the hell did they all come from? They reckon there were 25,000 people present. I had expected a big crowd at the Club, but what I didn't expect were the thousands clamouring for vantage spots on the cliffs as I sailed up the Bay. They were everywhere!
Sure, it was a bit unusual for a seventeen-year-old to take a couple of years off school, raise some money and sail around the world. But it had been done before, and someone will do it again. I had no understanding of the number of people who had followed my trip avidly, particularly my weekly diary in the newspaper.
Having been back for a while, I now think I understand why so many turned out that day. There was a storyline over eleven months, with ups and downs, and trivial and life-pondering moments. And it was real. For many people, it made a difference from the usual diet of television. For many, that Sunday afternoon was the climax of the story they'd been following for so long, and they could play a part in the ending.
I finally got the call to come in a bit before 1.30 p.m. Dad sailed the last mile alongside me. I quickly dropped the genoa and pull it on board as a Yacht Club dinghy drew alongside to manoeuvre me around the breakwater. There were people everywhere you could imagine, trying to get a look. The crowd started to stir until it turned into a cheer and applause. I didn't know what to do or how to handle it so I just focused on steering the boat and looking as if I was concentrating. I hadn't seen anyone for five months, and suddenly thousands were cheering me.
As I got closer the crowd got louder and louder. I could then see the small jetty that stuck out on its own like a baby's finger. Standing on the jetty were some familiar faces—friends and family—and a tall dark-haired man named Steve Bracks who I later found out was the state's new Premier.
I couldn't wipe the smile from my face. I've never smiled so much in my life. Even if I wanted to I couldn't stop. At that point I believe I was experiencing genuine happiness like I'd never felt before. I was also suddenly filled with pride at what I'd done.
Then I saw Mum for the first time since the Azores. She'd chosen not to come down to the Heads, as she felt she would have been frustrated at seeing me but not being able to hug me. She was standing on the edge of the jetty. I could also see Oma, Gran, Beau and Andrew. Dad and Suzie were still behind me on Bohemian. I'd been homesick, angry, scared and frustrated, but when I saw my family, I felt something that I just can't describe.
The boat slowly glided into position next to the dock and I took time to make sure I was secure. Then something strange happened. I just sat there, as though not knowing what to do.
Someone said to me, ‘Come on, you can get off now,’ which jolted me out of my reverie.
I didn't know what I was doing or thinking. I've looked at the news footage since, and it was obvious that I was sitting there unsure of what to do next. I stood on the side of Lionheart and slowly lowered myself onto the jetty. I had no time to check the stability of my legs for Mum immediately grabbed me and jumped up and down. Her emotion washed over me.
After greetings all round, I took my first step. I felt like a clown, as though I'd had too much to drink. The mind knew what it wanted, but my feet were unable to carry out the instructions. It took a few seconds, but I began the walk to the Yacht Club. I turned to look at Lionheart. I wanted to see what she looked like, to see her beautiful lines from an angle I hadn't been able to see her from for such a long time.
I was soon overcome by the crushing crowd as I began the 150-metre walk to the Yacht Club. It was incredible. There were kids and dogs, and people pushing others as they tried to touch me—like the fervour you see in religious festivals in countries like India. It was made even more dramatic by the fact I was being given a wedgie by two security guards who had hold of me by the back of my pants.
There was definitely a lot more media at the Yacht Club than I expected, probably 25 reporters, plus associated technical people and cameramen. I believe there was even crew from the BBC. The questions were harmless enough, even if one of the reporters tried to quiz me on my views on the upcoming republic vote. I knew enough to stay clear of that one and tried to stick to my adventure. I think I gave him a sufficiently confusing answer that it never made it into print. Others asked if I'd found God, or if I took Playboy magazine. I answered ‘yes’ to one of them.
It was over in about fifteen minutes, then came the moment I'd complained about weeks before—greeting the crowd and opening the bottle of champagne. To tell you the truth, it wasn't that bad. I was going with the flow of what had been organised. Talking to the crowd made me realise that I'd been given a special opportunity and that I should use it wisely. I'd never had an audience like that before and probably never will again. There were old men, young girls, mothers, wild sons, every type of person imaginable. I tried to hammer home my theme that young people can do anything and should be encouraged to follow their dreams. I'd have liked to have been there as a s
pectator, to take it in properly, appreciate it more, and see it from a different angle.
The official schedule for the day said my next engagement was a medical examination. It sounded so serious, but it consisted mainly of Dr Broomhall asking if I was all right, and my replying ‘yes’.
The next step was something I'd been looking forward to for a long time: a shower and a change of clothes. It went all too quickly. Putting the clothes on gave me an indication of whether I'd lost any weight. Hardly any, as it turned out. All my clothes fitted perfectly. Actually, they were Beau's clothes, as he had trendier clothes than me.
Then came time to see my mates. They were the same bunch I left, and luckily, they treated me the same. They appeared to have taken advantage of a few free drinks at the bar, so they were carrying on a bit. After most of the crowd had left, about eight of us went down to the end of one of the jetties and took a leak off the end. Some habits were proving hard to break.
We left Sandringham at about 5 p.m. I travelled the hour back up to Sassafras in Mum's car with Mum, Andrew, Beau and one of his mates. We chatted about pretty mundane things. Nothing about the trip, just family life. When we arrived home, the media frenzy began.
There was a television crew waiting to film me entering the house. I was also filmed in the shower, as though it was the first since my return, but our hot water service wasn't strong enough to provide the steam for that ‘realistic’ shot. I stood there for 30 minutes while kettles were boiled to create the desired effect. It was a bit tiresome.
The media finally left late that night, which allowed me to do what I'd yearned to do for months. About 10 p.m. I went around to Darren's place, where I celebrated with all the boys (and a few girls) with a few beers and a sing-a-long until the early hours of the morning.
It was great to be back! I rolled home at 2 a.m., where I found Mum still up, so we chatted for an hour about the trip and what had happened at home in the last eleven months. I got to bed at 3 a.m., after about 40 hours on the go. My head hit the soft dry pillow in a bed that didn't rock.
And so ended the biggest day of my life.
The next day, the media frenzy began in earnest. I was up at 6 a.m. for a live interview, then spent the day in a farcical effort to protect one television show's exclusive rights to me. It got to the stage where I was told to cover my face while doing a radio interview so another camera crew couldn't film me. I was pretty annoyed at being put in such a situation. I knew all the media attention was warranted, that I was newsworthy for that moment, and it was valuable for me to build my profile for what I had planned, but I wish it could have been a bit more settled in those first few days.
But there were some fun times. I arrived a few days before the Melbourne Cup, so my family was invited along to watch the races.
I also received a civic reception at the Melbourne Town Hall, which was a great honour, and gave me my first chance to catch up with all those who had supported my trip.
The next few weeks were pretty hectic, with a lot of media interviews, particularly for some of the magazines, which had been arranged before I had come home.
Not long after my return I received a call from the Sandringham Yacht Club to say Prince Philip was visiting Australia in March and wanted to meet me! The visit had to remain a big secret until a few weeks before the visit. I kept up my end of the bargain, with only family knowing what was going on. Someone else obviously didn't feel bound to keep things secret—the news I was to meet Prince Philip made it onto the rumour segment of one of the highest-rating breakfast radio programs in Melbourne. There was great excitement at the club over the visit, given that Prince Philip was actually Commodore-in-Chief of Sandringham Yacht Club and had visited the club before.
I arrived on the day, and went down to where Lionheart sat, at the exact spot I'd arrived five months before, but not before I spoke to the media for a few minutes.
‘Are you looking forward to meeting the prince?’
‘Well, yeah, but I didn't lose any sleep over it last night.’
‘Why, is there someone else you'd rather meet?’
‘Well, of course, I'd be much more entertained by a super-model [giggle from the reporters] but yes, I am looking forward to it.’
Three white cars entered the yard and out jumped the Prince. A quick shake of the hands with a few of the heads of the club, and it was time to meet him. I committed my first faux pas for the day with my hand in my pocket as I greeted the Prince. I honestly didn't realise, as I was just standing comfortably. I found him to be a perfect gentleman and he was genuinely interested in looking at Lionheart and asking about my trip.
After a few minutes, he wandered off and the media pack descended on me again to ask how it all went. I told them what I felt. That it was nice to meet the Prince, and I was glad I had as it gave me a better understanding of how life must be for the royals, but it was not the highlight of my life. After all, the Prince was just a normal person, like me, in the same way that I now understand that Bill Clinton and Ben Harper are only human.
Someone asked me if it was worth sailing around the world to meet the Prince. Of course it wasn't. What a silly question. I also added that I thought he'd gone to so many of those things that he'd probably not be too interested in everything he saw.
The two daily newspapers really got stuck into me the next day. The Herald Sun carried the headline ‘Jesse a fish out of water’. The story told of my mismatched attire of blue blazer and black pants (I got dressed in the dark and didn't realise) and lack of excitement over meeting the Prince.
The Age told a similar tale, reporting that I was ‘nonchalant’: ‘“It was nothing special.” He said the former navy officer knew his yachts but had declined an offer to board the Lionheart. Prince Philip was nice, he said, but it probably wasn't worth getting into a suit to meet him.’ (The comment probably owes more to an indifference to fine tailoring than any personal response to Prince Philip.)
Mum was pretty upset by what was in the papers, and I believe the Yacht Club got a few calls over what was seen as my disrespect. It was my first encounter with negative media. I certainly said those things, but it was not what I meant. I thought the Prince was a great bloke, and I was very honoured to meet him. But the meeting was not the highlight of my life, and not the reason I sailed around the world.
The next day, amid all the worry over what people would think, the phone rang at home. It was the Duke's personal secretary, Mike Parker. He called to say that the Prince had a wonderful day and was pleased to meet me. He also said the Prince was aware of the controversy over the stories, and wanted to let me know that he knew what it was like to be misquoted and misrepresented by the media.
‘Welcome to the club,’ was his message.
But it made me think about how the media reacts when you get a profile. I was opening a solar boat race in Canberra some months after I returned, which involved my being winched down from a Navy Sea Hawk helicopter onto a solar boat. However, the down draught from the helicopter began to push the boat away from me. The chopper, with me dangling from the winch, had to chase the boat until two army guys onboard grabbed my legs and pulled me down. As far as I was concerned, it all went to plan. I thought the boat was meant to be moving and it was fun, if not a bit uncomfortable in the rescue sling.
The next day's front page of the main Canberra newspaper told how I nearly died while doing a stunt out of a chopper. It was disappointing to see them try to sell a few extra papers by making up a story rather than reporting on the positives of the boat race and the school kids who'd put days into getting their boats ready.
A few months after I returned I found myself busy doing talks all over the place. But I still had a debt of more than $80,000 hanging over my head, and I'd given up my pamphlet job ages ago. After a few months with no money coming in and the debts continuing to grow, I got in contact with Phil Gregory, whom I'd met and chatted with via email during the trip. I asked if he'd like to organise talks for me so I c
ould earn an income.
We found that we had similar personal values and goals in life, and I related very well with him. He is basically my manager, although I hate to use that word, and our relationship isn't really like that. He'd just given up his position as an advertising agency director and hadn't done management work before, so we were both beginners. We now work together to tell others they can turn their dreams into reality.
What I value most is being able to use my public profile to share the lessons I've learnt from the trip. I don't particularly want to be remembered as a sailor. The trip was something I wanted to do and now I've done it. But I've got heaps of other goals, including telling people how powerful I believe the human spirit is, and inspiring people to have faith in themselves.
One of the ways I'm doing that is through the Reach Youth organisation. Reach was formed six years ago by AFL footballer Jim Stynes and film director Paul Currie to help young people from all walks of life who may be facing the challenges of being a teenager. These guys had no formal psychological qualifications, but by sharing themselves with compassion and speaking on a level that is real, not superficial or authoritative, Reach has achieved amazing results. I've been in rooms where the toughest kids you can imagine have been brought to tears, and consequently changed their view of life.
And Reach doesn't just assist those who go through its courses. I've found that its message has helped me since I came back. For instance, it encouraged self-expression to the extent that I've been able to write this book. I'd never revealed my feelings of rounding Cape Horn, my homesickness when I left or how scared I was in rough weather, until I sat down and put it on paper. This book is my way of telling the true story of my journey, to close that chapter on my life so I can get on with the next challenge.