Stop Drifting, Start Rowing

by Roz Savage

  I installed myself at the guardrail just in front of the bridge, my hair blowing in the wind, my eyes straining into the distance until they ached. I regularly checked the satellite phone to see if we had received another position update, which would be relayed to me by Rick, who was monitoring the website. We’d taken the site out of the public domain so that only the core members of the team had authority to access it. We didn’t want any unauthorized salvage missions to get to the Brocade before we did.

  “I see her!” Aenor’s shout from the crow’s nest came loud and clear.

  “Where, where?” I couldn’t see anything.

  “Over there, almost dead ahead!”

  At first I still couldn’t see anything, but gradually a small silver speck came into view, occasionally glinting in the bright sunlight.

  Eric’s dead reckoning of her position had been almost perfect: We had to make an adjustment of only two degrees to aim straight for the Brocade. Given the number of variables involved, and that we were coming at the boat almost from right angles, this was a quite magnificent feat of chart plotting. The tiny speck gradually resolved itself into the familiar outline of my boat, bobbing gently in the swell.

  There’s something strange, I thought. There’s something missing. Ah yes, that was it. There was no rower at the oars. I was so unused to seeing my boat from the outside that the only mental images I had of her in the water were the photographs taken during the Atlantic Rowing Race, and in all of them I am at the oars, rowing purposefully. It seemed very odd to see her in the water, un(wo)manned.

  It was also clear that she had not capsized again since I had left. Everything on deck appeared exactly as it had been when I abandoned ship. So much for the Coast Guard’s dire predictions that the conditions were going to get worse before they got better.

  As we approached the rowboat, Eric and I donned wet suits. The plan was that we would jump into the water and swim over to the Brocade. Once on board, we would take out a rope harness from its stowage hatch and attach it to the four D-rings that were firmly bolted to the bulkheads in the four corners of the cockpit. I’d had these D-rings fitted at a boatyard in Richmond Point, California, just in case the boat ever needed to be winched aloft. I’d managed to get part of the considerable cost met by the New York Times, which had wanted to do a photo shoot of the boat suspended vertically with me standing alongside, as a parody of the traditional shots of sports fishermen standing triumphantly alongside enormous marlins. (As it turned out, they eventually decided on a dramatic nighttime shot that had involved a near-hypothermic experience on a windy, rain-soaked evening, necessitating some considerable time to be spent afterwards in a bar with a medicinal scotch or several.)

  Now I was extremely glad of the harness and D-rings. Before they had been installed, the only way to hoist the boat was to place canvas slings beneath the hull, which would have been extremely difficult while she was in the water.

  As it turned out, the water was so millpond-calm that Captain Vince was able to steer the White Holly right alongside the Brocade, close enough that Eric and I were able to climb down a rope ladder and step directly onto her deck. We swiftly found the harness and attached it to the D-rings using strong shackles. Operating the derrick arm from a control panel in front of the bridge, Captain Vince lowered a hook, and we looped it through the harness. So far, so good.

  Now Eric and I were supposed to get off the Brocade to reduce her weight, and get back on the deck of the White Holly to help hold the bow and stern ropes. These had been attached to the Brocade to stop her swinging once she was out of the water. But due to some miscommunication, Captain Vince started to lift the boat before we had a chance to disembark.

  As we rose free of the water, a wave struck the side of the White Holly. It was only a tiny wave, but it was enough to set the Brocade swinging like a pendulum on the end of the crane arm. Mike and Chris had hold of the bow and stern ropes, and Eric yelled at them to hang on tight. Mike, unprepared for the sudden jerk on the rope in his hands, let go. Chris clung on for dear life and was dragged bodily across the deck as his feet failed to find purchase on its slippery metal surface. The rope burned the skin of his hands—we would later see the painful evidence—but alone he was unable to regain control over 2,000 pounds of swinging rowboat.

  As Captain Vince swung the derrick arm across the deck of the White Holly, my precious Brocade collided with the shark cage once, twice, three times. Eric was shouting and swearing from the deck of the rowboat, frustrated by being in the wrong place and unable to do anything to help. I had my head in my hands, unable to watch. I couldn’t believe that we had come all this way and successfully found my boat, only to beat the living daylights out of her just as our mission was on the verge of success. Aenor weighed in to help man the ropes, but not before Brocade had suffered several dents to her hull and some damage to her rudder.

  At last she was brought under control and lowered to rest on the trailer. I slowly uncovered my eyes and clambered down to the deck to survey the damage. Chris ruefully examined his skinned palms. Eric berated Mike.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get that all fixed up for you,” Captain Vince reassured me, as I looked doubtfully at the splayed wood along the damaged bottom edge of the rudder.

  THERE WAS NO TIME TO WASTE on regrets and recriminations. It had already been late in the season when I set out from Crescent City, and I wanted to get the boat repaired while still at sea so I could relaunch my bid without delay. The team set to work. The main tasks were to slot in a new autopilot, the previous one having been destroyed in one of the capsizes; to reinstall the lee cloths and safety belts in the sleeping cabin, ensuring that they were securely bolted right through the floor; and to replace the sea anchor. I supervised, Eric and Aenor worked, Melinda kept everybody fed and watered, and Chris and Mike tended to the damaged rudder.

  Throughout the day I was on the satellite phone to my weatherman and the Ocean Rowing Society (ORS), discussing strategy. The ORS is the governing body of ocean-rowing feats, as recognized by the Guinness book of records. It was founded by Kenneth Crutchlow who, although he has never rowed an ocean himself, has been involved in ocean rowing since the 1980s. He famously took a resupply of food to the late, great Peter Bird when he was running out of rations in mid-Pacific, thousands of miles from the nearest landfall. Kenneth chartered a catamaran and set out with a boatful of supplies to rendezvous with Peter. Thus was born the Ocean Rowing Society. My main question for the ORS was whether it would count as a valid ocean crossing if I put my boat back in the water in the place where I had been airlifted and resumed my row from there.

  Ken was now considerably older than in his heyday, with a walrus moustache and white hair. He lived in North London with his elegant Russian wife, Tatiana, in a large crumbling town house near Camden Lock Market. I had stayed there once, on the ground floor, and had been disconcerted to find assorted Russian ocean rowers secreted in various cupboard-like bunks beneath staircases, and my sleep that night had been disturbed by the sound of mice rustling through the society’s archives.

  “Ken,” I said into the bulky handset of the satphone, “I’m planning to resume my row just as soon as we get the boat fixed up. The record isn’t really all that important to me—you know I’m really out here as an environmental campaigner—but I don’t want to exclude the possibility of an official record from the outset. Would it be valid if I relaunched from the point where I was picked up?”

  He harrumphed. “No, no, that wouldn’t do. It would be an interrupted row. That wouldn’t count. You’ll have to go back to the mainland and start again.”

  My heart sank. I felt that I’d already done the hardest part of the row, the first hundred miles from the coast, and it was getting awfully late in the year to start over again. I thanked Ken for his advice and hung up.

  I shared my problem with Captain Vince. “How about if we go back as far as the Farallons?” he suggested. “Officially, they are part of the city of San F
rancisco. Surely that would be valid.”

  I got back on the phone to Ken. “What about the Farallons?” I asked. “They’re 20 miles out from San Francisco, and officially a part of the city.”

  “Well, you’ve still got the same problem, haven’t you?” he said, and I could picture his moustache bristling in displeasure. “An interrupted row.”

  I was thinking on my feet. I wasn’t ready to give up that easily. “But Ken, when we do the Atlantic Rowing Race, we set out from the Canaries and end up in Antigua. It’s island to island. This would be no different. Island to island.”

  “Hmph!” he snorted. There was a pause on the end of the line. “Yeesss. That’s a very good point, Roz. Let me think. Hmm, yes, Tatiana’s nodding. Yes, I think we would have to allow that.”

  I reported back to Captain Vince, and we changed course. We’d been heading north towards the point where I had been picked up. Now we turned to the east, and headed back in the direction of San Francisco, a route that would take us past the Farallons. Because the islands are a U.S. National Wildlife Refuge and a special permit is required to set foot there, we did not plan to go ashore but to tie up at a buoy just offshore. Captain Vince had made many trips to the Farallons delivering supplies, and there seemed a fair chance that we might be able to come to some arrangement with the biologists stationed there.

  BUT THERE WAS ANOTHER VARIABLE to take into consideration: the weather. In the run-up to my departure from California, Rick and I had created a traffic light system to indicate acceptable levels of risk. Taking into account wind speed, wind direction, tides, and current, one-hour time slots would be designated as green, amber, or red, signifying respectively go, maybe, and definitely not. I was now calling him to get forecasts relevant to my proposed launch locations and times as they evolved. He was dubious.

  “These conditions are what you previously defined as amber-slash-red,” he said. “You’re moving the goalposts. And it’s late in the year. I can’t promise you won’t run into winter storms as you approach Hawai’i.”

  This was not what I wanted to hear. I wanted to eradicate the whole unfortunate episode that had ensued after the Coast Guard turned up, as if to pretend it had never happened, and to restart this year seemed to be the best way to achieve that end. I was still stubbornly clinging to my dream, tattered though it was. I thanked him and pensively pressed the Off button on the satellite phone.

  I was also checking in with Nicole to ask her advice on how best to handle this from the PR point of view.

  “There is a lot of negative comment going on,” she told me. “The reporting has been pretty fair, but a lot of people aren’t getting the full facts of the case. They don’t know that you had private medevac insurance. They don’t know that you didn’t call for the Coast Guard. The story on the San Francisco Chronicle website had hundreds of comments, and most of them were bad.”

  This was sobering. I was upset and indignant. I’d thought that I no longer cared what people might think of me, but evidently I wasn’t as immune to public opinion as I liked to believe.

  “What do the folks at Brocade think I should do?” I asked quietly, referring to my corporate sponsors.

  “They will support whatever decision you make,” she said. “But it would probably be a good idea for you to come back to shore. Be seen to be safety conscious. Fix the boat up. Take your time before you set out again.”

  “But I don’t have any time,” I whined. “It’s already late in the year. If I don’t get going again now, I’ll have to wait until next year.”

  Her silence said everything.

  I SLEPT LITTLE THAT NIGHT AS WE VOYAGED towards the Farallons. The day’s conversations buzzed around and around in my head. To go or not to go, that was the question. I was reluctant to surrender my plan to set out across the Pacific this year. And everybody had put so much work into getting the Brocade shipshape for the relaunch.

  But on the other hand I didn’t want to run into winter storms. I’d had enough of capsizing for one year. And maybe Nicole was right—I was aware that as well as being conscious of my own safety, there might be aspiring ocean rowers who would look to my example, good or bad, so it would be better to be seen to be prudent. Thinking more broadly about my objectives, including the environmental goals, I realized that I was supposed to embody values such as prioritizing long-term over short-term interests, and maturity and responsibility over hotheaded arrogance. Seen through this lens, my decision became clear.

  I WAS WOKEN FROM A LIGHT DOZE by the sudden cessation of the ship’s engine. A pale dawn light was filtering in through the portholes. I rubbed my bleary eyes and swung my legs out of the bunk. After pulling on a few garments, I made my way to the communal bathrooms. Aenor was already in there.

  “So, this is it,” she said. “Launch day.”

  I shook my head. “No, Aenor,” I told her. “I’m really sorry, but it just doesn’t feel right. Rick says it’s too late in the year, and the conditions are marginal. I’m not going to do it.” She nodded in understanding and hugged me.

  I went out on deck to find a grey, foggy daybreak. The crew were mooring the White Holly to a large buoy. The buoy’s bell clanged dolefully, as if mourning my ruined hopes. The Farallons were almost invisible, just a darker shade of grey in the bleak morning mist. I invited the crew to join me and the others in the galley. We sat on two bench seats, facing each other across the table.

  “I’m sorry, guys,” I began. “I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I’m not launching today. I really appreciate everything you’ve done to get the boat ready, but on balance it’s just not safe. The weather forecast is poor, and it’s likely to get worse rather than better. Let’s go back to San Francisco, and I’ll get the boat properly fixed up and try again next year. I know you’ve worked really hard, so I’m sorry for letting you down.”

  “You’re not letting us down,” Aenor insisted. “Not at all. We did this because we wanted to give you the option to set out again this year. We didn’t want you to lose that option because the boat wasn’t ready. We made the boat ready, but we know that there are lots of other variables involved, like the weather. We couldn’t do anything about those. But this was something we could do for you. We wanted to give you the flexibility to go, if everything else aligned.”

  “Ultimate flexibility,” Melinda chimed in. “Keeping open as many options as possible for as long as possible, until enough facts emerge to make clear which option is best. If your boat’s ready, but if it’s not right for some other reason, no worries.”

  I understood. They genuinely didn’t mind, because their objective in coming on the rescue mission had not been to see me relaunch, but to do what they could to grant me the flexibility to launch or not launch, as I saw fit.

  A few days earlier I had barely known these wonderful women, but now I felt incredibly lucky to have them as friends. I choked up a bit.

  “Thanks,” I croaked. “Let’s get going.”

  As we headed back to San Francisco, Eric found me in the bunk room and gave me a hug. “You’re doing the right thing, sweetie,” he said, and then stood back. “Is it really over between us?” he asked.

  I looked at him wearily. I had had to make so many tough decisions in the last few days. Yes to the Coast Guard. Yes to spending a significant proportion of my sponsorship money on chartering the White Holly. No to relaunching. Was he really asking me to make yet another decision? He’d done so much for me, not just on this final voyage but throughout our relationship, but I knew in my heart of hearts that we had run our course, that I didn’t feel the way about him the way that a girlfriend should. He deserved happiness, but he wasn’t going to find it with me.

  “Yes, it is over,” I said. And then I remembered. “Oh, and, er, happy birthday.”

  FRIENDS ALLOWED ME TO STAY at their lovely cliff-top house in a small beach town just north of San Francisco. I drove north over the Golden Gate Bridge, turned left onto Highway 1, and followed the specta
cular coast road across the San Andreas Fault and onto the Point Reyes peninsula. You won’t find the town unless you know it is there. There used to be a signpost, but the locals didn’t want anybody to find them, so they took it down. The authorities put it up again. The locals took it down again. Eventually the authorities tired of this game and gave up. I will respect the town culture and not disclose its name nor its exact location, but suffice it to say that it is a very special place, consisting of an old-fashioned saloon, two restaurants, a coffee kiosk, a few small stores including a surf shop, and a couple hundred houses. If you know the town, you will know where I mean.

  It was the perfect place for me to retreat to lick my wounds. The cuts on my head were healing, but it had been a hurtful experience in more ways than the physical. My personal disappointment was compounded by the public criticism. The fact that most of it was based on an incomplete knowledge of the facts did little to assuage my feelings of distress and indignation.

  I had an irresistible urge to set the record straight. Nicole restrained me from responding individually to the Internet trolls, and instead suggested I publish a blog post called “Setting the Record Straight,” which I did. I don’t know how many of the armchair critics saw it, but it made me feel marginally better to know that I’d done what I could to argue my case.

  I was still finding it hard to reconcile myself to what had happened. I kept asking what I had done to deserve this. Could I have been more rigorous in my preparations? Should I have been firmer in my conversations with the Coast Guard? Should I have refused to leave my boat? They surely couldn’t have removed me by force.