by Sarah Outen
That said, I would never turn people away or refuse to answer their questions – I was very touched that people were so interested. They were all so kind as well: I was taken out to dinner on numerous occasions; people brought lunch and snacks to me while I beavered away; another gave me sailing gloves and hand cream; people offered lifts, did my laundry, gave me a bed or a bunk on board for the night and various charms and talismans. In short, I was so warmly welcomed and supported that I felt goodwill alone might buoy me out to sea.
Some of these wonderful people deserve specific mentions. There was Clem, the harbour master. If I had a problem he always had the answer. He also drummed up some local PR for me, chased late deliveries of my kit, drove me about on various missions and to media interviews, let me use his office and generally did everything in his power to make things as easy as possible. I nicknamed him ‘Clem, The Man Who Can’. Then there was Geoff the Expert and his partner Janet, both of them experienced sailors. They had originally emailed me to see if I might like to meet Jamie Dunross, a quadriplegic Paralympic gold medallist with plans to sail round the world. I had suggested a quick coffee as I was so busy, but ended up spending hours with them all and they helped me enormously. Finally, there were the two RPYC members who appeared at Dippers’ side while I was working one evening. ‘So, we just wanted to come down and have a look at the crazy gal who would do this sort of thing! I’m Sally and this is Margot,’ chirruped the bronzed smile. They were great fun and very good at mothering me.
People also told me about their own adventures, past or dreamed, often saying shyly ‘But it’s nothing like this’ and scuffing over them. I say they are just different adventures – essentially we all go off for similar reasons, whatever the journeys and dreams, and we’ve all got hopes and fears. So when people said ‘You must be so brave’, I just shrugged my shoulders, rubbed my painty, dusty hands on my dirty shorts, shook my head with a smile and said, ‘We’re all brave – we just choose different arenas.’ I told them about Dad and his battles and courage, which in turn drew more stories from them. One newspaper photographer wiped away tears as he told me how his father had died a year earlier and he was only just beginning to feel in control of life again; another man choked up as he gave me a little toy duck and told me how it had been from his friend’s two-year-old son who had drowned in a pond. In a way I felt like a guardian of these stories, and that I would be journeying for so many people other than myself.
There was a mind-boggling amount of faffing and preparation to be done in those two weeks pre-ocean. As with all projects (particularly those involving boats and in which you have no experience) everything takes longer than you expect, it costs so much that you are required to mortgage all your toes, nothing goes entirely to plan and it can all seem very stressful to the increasingly tired, broke and first-time rower trying to keep all the plates spinning. After a week of making the hot and dusty commute in from the hills, I moved down to Fremantle to be closer to Dippers and the jobs list. I slept out on deck aboard Dampier, an old fisheries boat that one of the yacht club members had offered me use of, enjoying all the sounds of the marina – boats squeezing against fenders with the gentle slosh of water, wind rattling flagpoles, ropes creaking under strain, the waves in the distance and footsteps padding on the jetty as people made their way back home to their boats.
I was exhausted and feeling a bit overwhelmed by the time Ricardo my weather router arrived, my head sludgy with too many lists and not enough sleep. I relaxed into his bearish arms for a hug and breathed deep. His sole purpose was to finish preparations and help me get out to sea safely; he could take control now. Even though I had only met him in person once before just a few weeks earlier, we had spent hours on the phone talking weather and tactics. It was 11 March and it looked like I had a full week ahead of me before the weather window would let me leave. I needed winds from the east to blow me out to sea for a few days, to reduce the risk of being blown back to shore. Clearing land safely would be one of the hardest parts of the crossing and it would be made all the trickier by the Leeuwin Current, which the local sailors loved to quiz me about. It was quite difficult at times trying to defend our plans and expectations to local people, all of whom had different experiences and ideas about the voyage as well as a wealth of useful knowledge.
It seemed the Leeuwin was a local celebrity – everyone knew about it, namely that it was a fairly strong, not entirely predictable, current which runs down the West Australian coast, pulling things toward Antarctica. It would pull me south as I crossed it, but just how far south was guess work, as wind direction and strength would also be an important factor. The Fremantle Doctor would also challenge my getaway bid. It is a feisty offshore breeze which generally picks up each day, refreshing Fremantle with its dose of cool, salty air. For me, the little rower, it would not be a welcome breeze if it was stronger than a few knots, as I would be in danger of being washed ashore, dashed on rocks and branded a stupid Pom.
As the PR net widened and I appeared on various Aussie radio stations and in the regional newspapers, lots of positive emails and comments flooded my website. Plenty of folks also called me a ‘nutter’ or ‘bonkers’ and just a handful of them were sour. I am quite sensitive and briefly got quite worked up about them, before realising that I could use them as fuel. In a way they offered another chance for me to clarify my reasons for the journey in the same way that Ricardo did when he interrogated me. He wasn’t trying to put me off; he was just sounding out all my reasoning. He was like a trainer getting his boxer ready to fight, sparring to warm him up and test his reflexes, in order to know that he is fired up in his heart and his hands, but has a lucid plan for the bout. ‘Why aren’t you scared?’ he asked me on the evening that he arrived. I took another sip of my drink and bit my lip to consider for a moment, before looking straight into his dark eyes and explaining, ‘There’s no time and no need to be scared yet. I’ll be scared when I’m out there.’ I felt prepared and ready for the ocean now; there had been nearly three years of building up to it and I had done everything I could and was supported by some great people. Besides, I had bloody mindedness and tenacity in my armoury. Ricardo and I both agreed that there is nothing macho or gung-ho about crossing the ocean – there is no place for egos out there and no conquering of anything but your own fears. It is all about sound planning, sensible judgement, self-discipline, respect for the ocean and endurance. The rest is luck and out of anyone’s control.
He continued with, ‘Where’s the cut off?’
I looked back at him with incredulity, fire in my gloves. Did he think I was going to give up? ‘There is none. I will have to be a floating body before anyone pulls me off that boat, or very close to it.’
He wasn’t satisfied and sparred again. ‘What if you realise you’re out there for the wrong reasons and don’t want to go on?’
I squared up and shook my head. ‘I don’t do giving up. I’m cool with my reasons. I know exactly why I’m going out there. I’m excited. There is no turning back, buddy, no turning back. I promise.’
He smiled and asked for the bill, satisfied that my gloves were secure and that I had a plan. As he worked his charm with the waitress, I thought about how lucky I was to have such an experienced, level-headed guy on my team. He was already more than my weather man; he was my right-hand man and we were about to embark on the most incredible adventure together. I would rely on him for advice on incoming weather and best tactics for making the most of the good stuff and avoiding the bad stuff. His was the most vital role in my team, the others comprising my PR team, Briony, Sean and Caroline the doctors and my Mum, who had become chief of most things at home. Success would only happen if Ric and I were talking with each other regularly and if I trusted him more than I had ever trusted anybody before. From his home and office in Portugal on the other side of the world in the opposite hemisphere to where I would wield my oars, Ricardo would have the huge task of guiding me safely across the ocean, through contrary cur
rents and stormy systems, and lining me up to land on Mauritius. This wouldn’t just be a case of finding the needle in the haystack, this would be more like finding the very outermost corner of the eye on the left-hand side of the very tiny needle in the ocean-sized haystack. It certainly wasn’t going to be easy.
As we wandered back to the yacht club I looked forward to a decent sleep over the weekend, glad that I had one week’s grace before the weather would be just right for setting out. I felt good – everything was under control now that Ricardo was here – even though I was so drained. He kept telling me to eat more, sleep more, chill out, eat more, sleep more but I couldn’t. Ironically, I wouldn’t be able to switch off until the ocean, and even then I couldn’t really. Mauritius, months and thousands of miles away – that was the next time that I would truly be able to relax. Until then, my focus was the ocean.
Chapter 9
Ocean Next 6,000 Kilometres
‘The journey of a thousand leagues
begins with a single step’
Proverb
‘How are you feeling today, my little ocean-rowing girl?’ Ric was looking at me intently. I pushed my sunglasses up onto my head so I could see him properly.
‘Pretty good,’ I smiled back as I sculled with the oars to keep Dippers pointing into the waves. ‘Shall I row back in or do you want to tow me?’ We were just outside the harbour mouth, I was rowing Dippers and Ric was with a photographer in another boat. He looked serious and said that he had to tell me something before I made that decision. My mind leapt on to the alert – had I just said something really stupid? Would I be rowing against an outgoing tide or –…?
‘How do you fancy going rowing in twenty-four hours? The weather is looking great for tomorrow morning.’
I was silenced. My eyebrows shot up my forehead into a surprised arch and I grinned the wide gummy grin that I always do when I am nervous or excited. My stomach had just knotted itself and I clenched my teeth into gridlock, looking inward at the cacophony of emotion which had just burst out of nowhere. I was going rowing. I looked up at him and nodded, trying my best to look composed and serious. ‘Well, if you say it’s good, then it’s good for me, too.’
We hooked up the tow and their boat pulled out to the length of the line, leaving me to calm my little storm and think of the Final List of Things to Do before tomorrow morning. The list was huge and the clock was now ticking fast – really fast.
I leaned back against my cabin hatch and closed my eyes to the sun, trying to comprehend what was about to happen and willing the gentle waves to soothe me. This was a big day. A definitive day: my life was about to change forever as I rowed into a whole new era. Before the row, after the row: that is how my timeline would read from this day onward. Life was about to get serious and very salty. Departure was agreed for 6 a.m. the next morning and I floated on adrenaline. My appetite had disappeared and Ric kept pushing food my way, while also fending off enquiries and phone calls for me, telling me what I needed to do next and organising the willing helpers.
We worked right through the night to complete everything, with help from club members, friends of friends and people I had never even met before. They were all part of the team now, keen to help and excited to be a part of the adventure. Some were unwittingly signed up to Team Sarah, having arrived for a sociable evening at the weekly club barbecue; thinking they could have a little chat to us as we worked at the boat, they found themselves carrying jerry cans away to fill with water, or were sent off in search of a paintbrush, a pair of nail scissors, a bailer perhaps. We emptied the boat, cleaned the boat, capsized the boat, packed the boat, sorted the gear, resorted the gear, repacked the boat, took delivery of all the food, sorted the food, resorted the food, constructed netting stowage in the forward cabin and turned Dippers into a reflective beacon with strips of shiny tape. At one point the pontoon was completely covered with piles of my stuff, leaving any bystanders bewildered by the notion of fitting it all away into Dippers, floating alongside. My attitude was that ‘if it has to fit, it will’. And it did, somehow, even though I would have to share my bed with two huge 100-litre bags filled with my food packets until I had eaten it all. Respite arrived with a trip to the supermarket and the chandlery – there I was anonymous and free to wander aimlessly down the aisles, deciding on what extra provisioning I needed and whether my last few Aussie dollars would stretch to it. Certainly my bank balance would be very pleased to see me so many thousands of miles out to sea.
As the sunset rolled into darkness, Clem fixed up an outside light on the pontoon, and I left Ricardo and some others sorting the piles into different piles and packing the boat through the wee hours. I sat in the office, wired on fizzy drinks and nerves, making final phone calls to the UK, emailing sponsors and friends with goodbyes or instructions for various tasks. At 2.30 a.m. I climbed into Dippers for a couple of hours of rest. But how do you rest when you’ve got a butterfly brigade marching up and down shouting, ‘You’re going! You’re going rowing!’? I didn’t sleep more than a few snatches; my mind was full of thoughts and fears, wanderings and wonderings, and my tired brain buzzed until Ric opened the cabin door to rouse me at 4.30.
‘This is it, Sarah, this is it,’ I whispered to myself. My toes curled up, my tummy turned, and I took a deep breath before climbing out into the cool dark morning. ‘We can do this, Sarah, we can do this.’ It was still and quiet, but for the chatter of those who had already gathered or who had stayed up through the night. In the quiet sanctuary of the showers of the club I wallowed under the warm flow, savouring every last drop, reminding myself what it felt like to have fresh water run over my body. I kept pushing the button for more water, each time trying to coax myself out. I talked myself through what I needed to do, and what I would focus on for the next few days. ‘Eat. Row. Sleep. Row. Eat. Row. Sleep. Row. Row.’ The nerves were chattering quietly, but I felt fairly calm and in control; Ric had ticked everything off our list and there was nothing more to do except get in the boat and row.
More people had arrived while I was in the shower and I felt as though my every move was being watched. I tried to avoid eye contact and conversation and just muttered to myself as I went about my final checks, the realisation of the huge task ahead now dawning on me. Ric handed me a pile of sandwiches and pestered me until I had washed them all down with as much water as I could manage while everyone else was busy with their appointed jobs. Clem had prepared boxes of fruit and a huge bag of sandwiches; Margot filled up the water bottles; Sally was on chart-folding duty. After my breakfast I padded down to the pontoon, enjoying my last steps on land. I climbed on board and then flopped through the cabin door very ungracefully, and much to the amusement of the onlookers. I pointed out to them that it takes a certain art to nip in elegantly through the little hatch – and I had yet to master it.
Ric ran through where the packing team had stowed everything – besides my chocolate stash (which I had loaded up), most of my kit had been packed during my final office session, so the whereabouts of everything from undies to suncream, and from pasta to plasters would be a surprise, for better or for worse. He promised that I would find messages and surprises as I went. Then we hugged and I stepped outside to say my goodbyes. I had known some of these people just a few hours and, beside Ric, none of them for more than two weeks. Yet they had become part of my team and would be a part of my journey and memories of it forever. It was only because of the collective effort of folks like these, here and abroad, that I had made it anywhere near that jetty. This was all a team effort. I wanted to soak up every moment – these were the last times I would have human contact for months. Equally, I wanted to get going. I was feeling a bit sick from nerves and I knew they would settle once I got to the oars. One last phone call to Mum and I would be ready to go. After she told me to be safe and have fun, I told her that I would ring her from my satellite phone once I was out there, slipped in a quick ‘ I love you’ and had to press the red button before either of us got e
motional. Neither of us wanted to be the last to say goodbye.
Realising that I hadn’t brushed my teeth, I set about one last clean on the jetty, much to the delight of the two agency photographers, who snapped my foaming spit fest from every angle. Then I looked round at the smiling semicircle of people around me before running a final little circle on the pontoon and climbing aboard. I strapped on my safety harness and clipped the line to the boat; Dippers and I were now connected and I promised myself (and had promised Mum) that we would remain that way for the rest of the voyage while I was not in the cabin. That was my lifeline, literally.
Everyone was silent as I closed the hatches, fired up the GPS and sat down on my seat, securing my feet in the foot straps. I looked up, tapped the pontoon one last time and they prepared to cast me off.
‘THREE CHEERS FOR SARAH!’
Oh my goodness me – what am I about to do?!