Stop Drifting, Start Rowing

by Roz Savage

  As I neared the strait, the shipping traffic intensified. It looked as if everyone was heading to and from the same waters where I was bound. I’d planned to try and shoot straight down the middle, keeping a safe distance from land on either side, but decided that wouldn’t be such a good idea if it put me right in the middle of a major shipping lane. Instead I decided to try and get through the strait in daylight and to keep to the northeasterly, or upwind, side so that I would be unlikely to get swept ashore. Once through the strait, I guessed that the ships would take the shortest route, so if I stayed a bit farther offshore I should be safe.

  On Day 43 I was up and rowing before sunrise, and as it got light I could see the outline of Papua New Guinea to the southwest, looming high on the horizon, green and mountainous. Its craggy silhouette reminded me of the Hawai’ian island of O’ahu. As I got closer to the Vitiaz Strait, there was considerable maritime traffic, including a container ship that got rather too close for comfort, passing less than 100 yards from my bow. As it rumbled past I could easily see its name emblazoned down its enormous side: Golden Shui. It was about 300 yards long.

  It is hard to describe the sheer scale of these monsters of the sea, which are so much bigger than anything that could travel on a road. I can only describe it as being like seeing a huge office block sweep past at 15 knots. I hardly ever saw a person on board these enormous vessels, nor was I able to raise them on the marine radio. These were huge, impersonal, scary juggernauts.

  A little later there was a mild commotion amongst the fishy followers under my boat. A large shape lurked beneath. I got some fleeting footage on my video camera, which defied later identification, but I suspected it was a shark. As I was leaning over the side to try and capture it on film, the big critter made a sudden movement towards the bow of my boat, punching through the surface of the water and making me jump. Memories of Jaws came to the fore, and I emitted a frightened squeal. Just because I could appreciate the desperate plight of the world’s sharks didn’t necessarily mean I wanted to get up close and personal with one, unless perhaps it were a vegetarian, like the whale shark I’d seen on the middle stage of the row.

  That afternoon the wind picked up considerably, resulting in the windiest day I’d had thus far. It was coming out of the south and made for choppy rowing conditions. The good news was that it helped put me exactly where I wanted to be—to the northeast side of the strait, out of the main shipping route.

  After the roaring winds of the day, the following night was eerily quiet and dark. In daylight I had been able to see land all around—Papua New Guinea, New Britain, Umboi Island, and various low-lying rocks—but as the sun set it all disappeared into the darkness. No lights. No ships. No moon. Just the occasional flash of distant lightning illuminating the clouds, and my little boat an oasis of brightness in the darkness.

  DURING THOSE LAST FEW WEEKS, ONCE we realized how soon I was going to arrive, my mother had been hard at work establishing local contacts. Thanks to David Lambourne, our guardian angel in Tarawa, we had been put in touch with the former governor of Madang, Sir Peter Barter. As I closed in on the town, the timing of my arrival became critical. Sir Peter was keen to organize a proper welcome for me, involving some of the local people, so he needed to know when to expect me. Yet it was almost impossible to predict my arrival time with any degree of accuracy due to wild fluctuations in my speed.

  On 1 June, just to the south of Long Island, I ran into some of the most extraordinary conditions I had ever encountered. Standing waves like white-water rapids slowed my progress to barely one knot. That afternoon I escaped the rapids, and in a fast-flowing current my boat speed rose to nearly five knots, the fastest speed I had ever sustained for more than the time it takes to coast down a wave.

  The one date that had been ruled out was 3 June, as this was when Sir Peter had a prior commitment and could not be available. But whichever way I ran the numbers, it looked almost certain that I would arrive on 3 June. I couldn’t go fast enough to arrive there earlier, nor slow enough to arrive there later. A phone call to Sir Peter established that his meeting was in the morning, so he could make himself available in the afternoon, and that became the target.

  In fact, I would meet Sir Peter for the first time a day earlier, on 2 June. But by “meet,” I don’t mean in the sense of shaking hands. That would have been rather difficult, as he was busy flying a helicopter and I was busy rowing a boat, so our hands were otherwise occupied as well as being some considerable distance apart. I had been warned that Sir Peter might be dropping in, so I had the opportunity to ensure that I was appropriately clad.

  I saw the sleek blue helicopter as it approached, swooping low over the waves. As it came closer, the wind from the rotors beat the water into concentric rings and blew my sun hat off on one side of the boat at the same time that a bucket, dropped from the helicopter, plopped into the water on the other side. After making a split-second decision, I lunged for my trusty and cherished hat and retrieved it first, before stepping smartly across the boat and over the guardrail, executing a neat dive into the blue waters to retrieve the bucket. After my near-fatal misadventure with the boathook, when I’d almost been separated from the boat, I could have been forgiven for being a little nervous about jumping overboard. But with the helicopter hovering overhead I felt sure that I wouldn’t be left to drown. I reached the bucket and sidestroked back to the boat, pulling it alongside me.

  Having seen that I was safely back on board, Sir Peter dipped the helicopter and peeled away, leaving me to pull off the masking tape that bound the lid to the bucket and discover the goodies within: a ham-and-cheese sandwich in a Styrofoam (oh dear) takeout box; three cans of beer packed with ice (hurrah); a thermos bowl containing a tropical fruit salad; a mobile phone still in its packaging; and an information pack comprising a newspaper announcing my imminent arrival, a covering letter from Sir Peter welcoming me to Madang, and a brochure from the Madang Resort. This was Sir Peter’s resort, and he had already offered me a room for a month as his guest. It looked very luxurious, holding rich promise of the yearned-for white fluffy towels and crisp, clean sheets. I was impressed. This was the kind of welcome I could get used to.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY I MET ANOTHER RESIDENT of Madang. In marked contrast to Sir Peter and his shiny, dark blue helicopter, Jan Messersmith came out in a scruffy little yellow-and-blue dive boat (what was with it me and yellow boats?), aptly named the Faded Glory, to find me. As the boat approached, I could see a compact, trim man at the wheel. He had a long white ponytail, a close-cropped white beard, and an extensive collection of tattoos. He was wearing shorts, a vest, and a big pair of aviator sunglasses.

  He had heard that I was on my way towards Madang and on a whim had set out to try and find me—a task that, without knowing my current position, would be like trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack. I would later find out that he had spent a couple of hours searching for me before flagging down a passing banana boat to ask them if they had seen “a woman in a big rowboat.” They reported that they had seen “something over there,” and Jan had followed their vague wave in my general direction. A few minutes later, he had spotted me through his binoculars and approached.

  I generally do not appreciate visitors at sea, so I very much appreciated Jan’s diffident, almost shy, approach. After greeting me and introducing himself, we discussed whether I was going to make landfall before dark or if I would have to wait until the next morning. Jan was a photographer and was keen to capture some images of me rowing past the iconic Coastwatchers’ Memorial, a lighthouse flashing a tribute to those who stayed behind enemy lines during World War II to report on Japanese troop and ship movements, located at the entrance to the Dallman Passage. After rowing an entire ocean, it would indeed be a shame to squander this photo opportunity by arriving after nightfall. But I knew I was running out of daylight hours. Jan offered to give me some space while I pushed ahead, and we could convene again in an hour or so to assess the situati
on. He revved his engine and guided the Faded Glory to a respectful distance. I returned to my oars.

  A while later, as promised, I saw the little yellow boat approach once more. I had been running the numbers and reckoned I would probably arrive at the Coastwatchers’ between 7 and 9 P.M.—too late. Jan had also been running the numbers and agreed. My arrival would have to wait until the next day.

  Jan offered to keep me company, but in such a tactful way that I felt able to say I would just as soon be by myself. As I neared the end of my voyage, I wanted to cherish these final moments of solitude. So he handed over a plastic bag containing a few cans of beer (more beer!) and some potato chips, opened up the Faded Glory’s throttle, and headed back to port.

  JAN’S VISIT HAD BEEN IN THE MORNING, and I continued rowing throughout the heat of the day. Sir Peter had suggested that I check in at regular intervals using the mobile phone to keep him updated on my estimated time of arrival, which I duly did.

  During one of the phone calls he had asked me what foods I had been missing, and did I like seafood. Already feeling thoroughly spoiled, with the care packages from both him and Jan (but also a little put out that I had accumulated as great a volume of trash in the last 24 hours as in the previous 45 days), this was like having my fairy godmother grant me three wishes—not that Sir Peter bore any physical resemblance to a fairy godmother, as I would later find out, being a burly, middle-aged Australian with sun-freckled skin. He said he would come out again towards sunset to see how I was getting on.

  He was as good as his word. Late in the afternoon, I saw a large yacht heading towards me at a brisk clip. Sir Peter’s boat, like his helicopter, was new and shiny, a large white motor cruiser with the words Kalibobo Spirit inscribed in bold blue letters down its side.

  There was quite a party on board. People crowded the rails as the yacht motored over to me and stopped. Sir Peter stepped onto the swim deck to personally hand over two enormous platters of seafood and fresh fruit, and a bottle of champagne. I tried to find suitable places to put them, no mean feat on a boat more accustomed to meals in mugs than large silver salvers. There was enough food to feed a men’s heavyweight rowing eight.

  Sir Peter introduced various smiling faces. I have to confess that the only ones I can remember are Richard Coleman, the English principal of the Papua New Guinea Maritime College, and his wife, Tekla. I am not very good at grasping names at the best of times, and after more than six weeks of isolation, suddenly there was an awful lot of sensory input.

  As the sun was setting, the yacht left to return the partygoers to shore, Sir Peter promising to come back later to escort me in. I looked forward to my last opportunity for several hours of peace before the Kalibobo Spirit returned. I gulped down a load of the fresh fruit and got back to the oars. A stitch in my side soon made me regret my gluttony.

  THE FINAL FEW HOURS OF MY PACIFIC CROSSING, after the return of the Kalibobo Spirit, felt psychologically hectic. It was dark by now, and the main challenge was navigation. I was sure I had the right coordinates for the entry to the Dallman Passage, as provided by my trusty weatherman, and I could see clearly on the screen of my GPS where I needed to go. But I kept receiving phone calls and booming announcements over the tannoy of the Kalibobo Spirit, telling me to correct my course. I had been rowing since 3 A.M. and became increasingly grumpy about this interference. I fondly reminisced about my arrival in Hawai’i, when the crossing of the line of longitude of the Waikiki Yacht Club had been a peaceful, serene, and solitary moment.

  At last, at 11 P.M., I finally passed the Coastwatchers’ Memorial. As I entered the Dallman Passage, the tannoy voice stopped booming, and I sighed with relief. I had arrived.

  Well, almost. I wasn’t allowed to set foot on land until I had cleared customs, and the customs officials had long since gone home for the night. We tethered my boat to the back of the Kalibobo Spirit, and I spent the night on board the larger vessel. I considered making the most of the opportunity to spend a final night on my boat, but ultimately the deciding factor was access to a proper bathroom. Having seen far too much human waste fouling the Solomon Sea on my way in, I did not want to add to the problem, especially this close to land.

  Staggering into my cabin around midnight, wobbly-legged and exhausted, I took a wonderful hot shower and collapsed into the most comfortable bed I had ever had the pleasure of sleeping in. It was blissfully soft and downy. I felt like I was sleeping in a warm, dry cloud.

  FIVE SHORT HOURS LATER THERE WAS A BRISK RAP at the door of my cabin, rousing me from a deep sleep. It was time to get up for the ceremonial arrival. We towed Brocade back out to sea, and after a quick phone call to Mum, I took up my oars again and re-rowed the last segment of my journey. The first local people to congratulate me were a few early fishermen, paddling their outrigger canoes, who formed an orderly line to pass close to my boat and shake my hand.

  They were just the first of many. As I neared the harbour, a flotilla of about 20 canoes, bedecked in traditional garlands of leaves, came out to join me and escort me to the dock. A helicopter buzzed overhead, shooting video and photos. Everybody was smiling, especially me. I kept stopping to wave to the crowds, who waved back enthusiastically. I wished there were a way to row and wave at the same time.

  As I got closer to the dock, the crowds on the shoreline thickened. Schoolchildren in uniform created blocks of colour, red and blue. As I rounded the corner towards the Madang Resort, the harbour wall was absolutely packed. The estimated number was 5,000 people, and I don’t think that was an exaggeration.

  The customs officials had set up a makeshift office on the dock, and as I stepped off my boat I was escorted to a table where I sat down opposite a row of uniformed men and one woman. It was a faintly surreal scene, an office out of doors, on a quayside. I handed over my passport, answered questions, and signed forms. Once we had completed the formalities on the dock, I was free to step ashore. I was met by the governor of Madang, Sir Arnold Amet, who explained the meaning of the traditional offerings I was being given. Not just garlands but also string bags, known as bilims, were placed around my neck, like outsize necklaces. I later noticed that most people wore their bilims in similar fashion, rather than slinging them over their shoulders as a Westerner might.

  As Sir Peter escorted me through the crowd everyone was reaching out to shake my hand or touch me. Brown faces crowded in on every side. Mobile phones pushed into my face as people took photographs. It was quite overwhelming to be surrounded by such a crush of humanity after 46 days at sea, even though it was less than half the time of my previous rows.

  I was startled when a woman pushed back my baseball cap and slapped white powder onto my forehead. I was later told that this was a traditional welcoming gesture, but at the time it was quite a surprise. The baseball cap fell off, and such was the crush that a young man caught it before it even hit the ground. He asked me if he could keep it. I hesitated. I had become rather attached to that hat. But what the heck, it would probably mean more to him than to me.

  “Sure,” I nodded. “Have it.”

  Sir Peter guided me to a microphone set up at the waterside and I said a few words. A group from the Madang Technical College, standing beneath a homemade banner depicting me, my boat, and words of congratulations on my environmental mission, sang the national anthem. There was more handshaking and gift giving—more bags, a round cooking pot, a bunch of bananas, a handful of betel nuts.

  AT LAST SIR PETER EXTRICATED ME AND WE escaped the crowds. He showed me to my room in a small annexe of the Madang Resort, just next to the dive shop behind a large metal gate. He explained that they had given me this room, usually reserved for the dive instructor, so I would be able to keep an eye on my boat. Brocade had by now been transported around the corner from the dock and was moored on long lines in the middle of a small lagoon, far enough from the banks to deter the curious from stepping aboard. I was grateful for their consideration. It seemed my every need had been anticipated and taken
care of.

  Throughout the day a steady procession of people came to see the boat. As I walked around the resort, yet more people shook my hand and congratulated me. It seemed hilarious that I had ever worried that there would be nobody to greet me in Madang. Had I really thought I was going to skulk quietly into town and then go and buy myself a solitary beer of celebration? Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  I noted in my blog that night, after dinner with the governor:

  It has been a day to remember, for sure. Spectacular. Thank you to everybody who has played a part—everybody here in Madang, the Governor, Sir Peter Barter, the staff at the Madang Resort, and of course my wonderful, indefatigable mother—my absent crewmate.

  And thank you also for all the messages of congratulations that have been rolling in from all over the world. Thank you for your love, empathy, kindness and support during this third and final stage of my voyage. I feel very lucky that you are there for me through the highs and the lows, the trials and tribulations, and at last the final joyous celebrations at the successful conclusion of this 4-year, 250-day, 8,000-mile, 2.5 million oarstroke epic adventure. It’s been special.

  I had just become the first woman to row solo across the Pacific Ocean.

  EPILOGUE

  “Being human always points, and is directed, to something, or someone—other than oneself—be it a meaning to fulfill or another human being to encounter. The more one forgets himself—by giving himself to a cause or to another person to love—the more human he is.”

  — VIKTOR FRANKL

  My search for happiness and meaning took place on the Pacific Ocean, but I hope that we are all, in our own ways, searching for happiness and meaning, and where and how we conduct that search matters not one iota. This is what binds us, our shared mission as conscious and evolving human beings.