A Dip in the Ocean

by Sarah Outen

‘It’s eleven o’clock at night and I leave at 8.00 a.m. Rather less frantic than first time round and I’m looking forward to a proper sleep. There’s a pile of food to be cut up and I’ve stacked all my bottles for filling; Margot, I’m giving that job to you. Customs are coming at 7.00 to stamp me out of Aus and then I am officially ‘Gone Rowing’ and not coming back in a hurry. I’d just better get across in one piece. I’m feeling confident. Ric says the weather is the best it’s been for four months too, so I’ve got the best chance possible now. Let’s nail it.

  Goodnight Australia.’

  I slept deeply and dreamed of nothing, waking to a soft dawn and the first well wishers, all wrapped up against the stiff cool of morning. It felt right this time round; Dippers and I were off.

  The club was already buzzing with activity, and I felt uncomfortable being the centre of attention. There were even a few sets of people I had never met before; they had driven from a few hours away to see me leave after hearing me talk on the radio or seeing my news in the papers. Jamie had kept his kids back from school, and people had taken time off from work – I was so touched that all these folks had come along, but it was a bit overwhelming. Two shiny grey dolphins played round Dippers, encouraging me to get going and reminding me of Ricardo, whose company in Portugal is called Delfinus, Greek for dolphin; it was as though he was there in spirit.

  I skipped my way through a little set of thank-yous, beamed at Geoff to push me away and took my first strokes as he called for three cheers. In a rowing boat you look back on where you have come from, so I drank up all the details of the crowd cheering for me, standing up to wave as I rounded the first corner of the harbour. There I had to fight back tears as I spotted Clem and Rob, two key players in my Aussie team, waving from one of the yachts. Others had run round to the harbour wall and waved from there. Two boats followed me out those first few miles, one a kayaker dressed in bright orange, his face pasted in thick sunblock. I enjoyed the company and we chatted our way out into the choppy water, by now glistening brightly in the sun. The other was a motor boat and had my new Mauritian friends Lina and Gerard on board, who I had met a few days earlier via the chap in Mauritius helping with preparations for the finish, along with Guy and Andy, the two rowers.

  As it was 1 April, we had played a little hoax by photographing me taking an outboard motor and 600 litres of fuel on board, stating that this was so that I could rescue myself if needed. Many of my blog followers were caught out and my team on shore told me of comments pouring in to my website congratulating my good sense while lots of others tried to work out the maths of the engineering. Even experienced sea-folk such as my friend Geoff Holt were hooked (‘Arghhh, I can’t believe I was duped!’). I just hoped that I wouldn’t later be branded the fool. Some had been surprised at my going out to sea a second time, but they clearly didn’t know me and had never seen me fight. I was no fool and I was not fooling around; I was serious and optimistic about the ocean and my ability to make it to Mauritius in one piece. Or else why on earth would I be doing it? That evening one of my sponsors wrote a lovely message on my blog, asking me to, ‘Take care and remember that it is only a challenge. Failure is no disgrace – the taking part, the effort is what matters.’

  For now, I had an ocean to row. If I failed again, then it wouldn’t be for want of trying.

  Chapter 12

  And All I Ask is a Sunny Day with White Clouds Flying

  ‘Wherever you go, go with all your heart’

  Confucius

  I was more than pleased to be on my way once more, and grateful to have sunshine warming my muscles and a gentle sea nudging me helpfully in the right direction. When the motor boat turned back to base after a few hours I stood and waved and waved and waved, following their boat with my eyes as it shrank first into a smudge and then to nothing. Andy and Guy would join me on the ocean in a few weeks’ time in their own little rowing boat, Flying Ferkins, though we fully expected never to see each other out there. Each of us would be blown by winds, pushed and pulled by currents across the waves.

  ‘Now that I don’t have this boat escort, I can hang my knickers out to dry,’ I told my Dictaphone once they had left and I pushed on past the moored shipping. These metal leviathans represented both my potential nemesis and source of rescue, should we get too close or I need assistance on the water. I squinted up at them, wondering who was on board and where they would go after docking in Perth and whether our paths might cross out at sea. Not that I would be any the wiser – none of them answered my attempts at a hello on the VHF radio. I smiled to think that these beasts would cross the ocean in a matter of days, clocking top speeds of around 30 or 40 knots. My voyage would take up a significant chunk of my year; however, I was sure that mine was bound to be more fun and full of adventure. It had to be – I had 500 bars of chocolate on board. How many boats can lay claim to such a fine chocolate-to-crew ratio? Rations aside, I knew my ocean crossing would be incredible.

  My Warm-up Lap had shown me that I needed to manage my rowing and resting patterns more effectively this time and so I took short rests during the day, snoozing or stretching out in the cabin for maybe ten, twenty, forty minutes. While out rowing I drank up all the details of land while I could still see them, wondering when I would be back again, hoping that it wouldn’t be too soon. Fremantle’s Maritime Museum curved into the air like the Sydney Opera House; the cranes and containers of the port looked like a pile of children’s building blocks; masts of sailing boats waved in harbours and, as I moved further up the coast, the towers of the city stood proud. Beaches stretched out a bright white along the shore; swanky apartment blocks and high-rises climbed into the sky behind and life trucked on as normal for those on land. Only I had started a new adventure today.

  Instead of turning out to sea after Rottnest Island this time I made use of the inshore current which tracks up the coast. The breeze picked up a bit through the afternoon, cooling the sun which scorched the deck and made me skip over it from my rowing seat to my hatch, burning my toes. Even though I felt more queasy than I did hungry, I nibbled my way through the day and into the night, trying to avoid the dehydrated meals while I still had more interesting ‘land food’ to graze on. There were the boxes of fruit and jam sandwiches that Margot had chopped up for me and some fresh muffins too, which I ate faster than anyone on shore would ever dream of doing. On the landless side of my boat on the right, the sun dipped and turned the sky a dusky pink; meanwhile to my left the night-time show of lights on land had begun. It made for a lovely first evening back on the water and I was glad that whoever had picked the day’s weather had been so kind and thoughtful – it was just what I needed to settle into this strange new world again.

  I rowed on until the night was treacle black and filled with diamond stars, heading to bed around midnight. Although I was tired and just wanted to wrap up in my blanket and sleep, I made the effort to go through my routine of wet-wiping off the suncream, applying moisturiser, talc and hand cream, cleaning my teeth and so on, as much for the sake of my clean fresh sheets as my own cleanliness. I had a run of text messages on my satellite phone from friends and family, as well as from Geoff the Expert and Ricardo – all positive and encouraging, and happy with my progress of twenty-something nautical miles so far. The last thing was to fill in the next line of my logbook and mark the day’s end on the GPS, check that all my gear was stashed away safely and then I was free to drift on to dreamland, my weary muscles applauding the rest time. I slept lightly for a couple of hours before checking my position and that of any other boats in the area then slept again some more; after a whole week of long, full sleeps it would take a few days to get used to being on alert again. It was great to see that, thanks to favourable winds, I had gained sea miles in the few hours while I slept and pleasingly all in the right direction. I was still nervous of a rerun of the Warm-up Lap, but trusted Ric’s forecasting of fair winds for at least seventy-two hours.

  A stiff breeze blew over the next few d
ays and the waves grew steeper, blowing from a useful easterly direction so that we were treated to some exciting surfing. While they weren’t as big as the waves we’d seen on the Warm-up Lap, they were certainly testing me, warming me up for the bigger stuff to come. Phil had designed and Jamie had built Dippers to be a real surfer chick, and although it was nerve-wracking to whizz down wave sides at high speed, I felt sure that I couldn’t have had a better boat for company. With each hour that passed I grew more confident in my own abilities to captain her, too, and began to enjoy surfing with her. Surfing a rowing boat is like any other surfing. You line up square to the wave, paddle hard as you feel the back end lift and steer down it by digging one or other oar into the water as a pivot, squealing, whooping and swearing as required. I loved learning how she moved and tracked in different conditions and how I could make the most of them to pull in more miles. It was electrifying to race down waves, tummy lurching as on a roller coaster, the wind in my hair and inevitably a few waves sloshing me. Often the scupper flaps on the side of the hull would be forced open by rushing water, which flooded the deck and filled the footwell, leaving my feet even soggier than normal. The scariest moments were when I couldn’t hold our course and we carved into a wave, broaching under the weight of the water dump crashing in over the side. Those were silent screaming moments as I braced every muscle in my body, sometimes letting go of the oars to grip the grab rails as I faced the wave growing up into my sky, a tower of blue or turquoise edged with white. Once I had clocked that we had come through it and hadn’t been capsized, it was a race to get back on the oars and line up for the next wave, often hollering triumphantly as I pulled hard to swing the stern round. Being thrown off the seat as an oar got caught in the water or the boat heeled over was neither extraordinary nor something I wanted to repeat more often than necessary; we often balanced on that fine line between feeling very excited and in fear of a complete wipe out. Although we had run a successful capsize drill in dock I didn’t want to test Dippers’ ability to self-right out at sea and would be happy (and very lucky) if I made it to Mauritius without rolling at all. All in all, the adrenaline was delicious and I was addicted.

  Less addictive was the sight of my hands and feet. After only a few days they were already disintegrating from being wet all day; layers of skin sloughed off my palms and the soles of my feet, leaving them a white and soggy mess and my cabin speckled with shed skin. I was only completely dry at night when I could take all my clothes off and let everything air. My bum hurt, stinging from being constantly wet and salty; sitting on my cushion outside was like sitting on hot, itchy drawing pins, which didn’t bode well for the months ahead. Initially it was too hot to wear waterproof trousers, so I just wore Lycra shorts; some ocean rowers swear by rowing naked, but to me that seemed like trekking 1,000 miles in hiking boots but no socks. The mix of sweat, water and salt meant that saltwater sores and boils were becoming a permanent feature of my Lower Decks – red and, as their name suggests, very sore. To keep it all as calm as possible and prevent deep infection I made a regime of applying talcum powder, zinc oxide cream, iodine and lavender oil a daily ritual, sometimes thrice daily. By Day 9 I was brewing some monster boils and I was convinced that I had trench foot. ‘I don’t know what it looks like, but I’m sure that it would look like this if I did have it. They’re falling apart,’ I told my diary. I looked forward to being dry and desalted at the end of the day in the same way that I looked forward to the re-warming of my toes and fingers if it was really cold. For even when the sun was shining, a wet windy day meant a chilly day at sea, calling for waterproofs and fleecy hats.

  Lying in my cabin I could get a feel of the day by looking out of my hatch, listening to what the water was doing and feeling for the boat’s motion. Hearing and feeling a wave slam over the top of the cabin or into its side suggested a very wet day ahead. I always drew out my preparations inside on these days, savouring every last moment of dryness. The first thing I did every morning was turn on my satellite phone to check for messages. Then it was tablets, toilet, teeth clean, logbook, before prepping to go outside properly for breakfast and rowing. Pulling on wet shorts usually made me gasp with the coolness and the sting of the open sores, but at least once they were on they started to warm up with my body heat. I slipped into my waterproof top, a shiver running through me at the feeling of cold rubber on my skin, then smiled as I pulled on my fleecy neck warmer and hat. Next came the damp and cold safety line around my waist, suncream and sunglasses, and I was ready to go outside. I judged the day’s opening by timing how long it took for the first wave to sluice me with its morning greeting, which quite often happened as I slinked out of the cabin, dousing me with cold salt and sending water running down the back of my neck to invade my warmth. This was made worse in the second week when my waterproof trousers split down the seam of the crotch, rendering them fairly useless and not in the least bit waterproof. If only I had brought my heavy-duty salopettes. Instead I had listened to various rowers who had said I would only need normal waterproof trousers, the sort you use for walking. Clearly my kindly sponsored Berghaus trousers were only meant for walking, not rowing across oceans, and my rowing friends who had advised them hadn’t had such messy weather on their Atlantic runs. Next time I’ll take the heavy-duty stuff as well.

  In many books I had read, ocean rowers seemed to take this continual drenching personally, holding a fiery vendetta against the sea. I tried to avoid this and each morning I would smile (or try to) as I stepped outside to breathe in the sea air, all fresh and salty. No matter how tired or sore I felt, a lungful of it filled me with renewed energy for a moment at least. I shouted a greeting out over the waves, ‘GOOOOD MORNING WOOOORLD!’, perhaps closely followed by a squeal as a wave came in. Every day was a good day by simple virtue of the fact that I was alive and living the dream. I was both a day closer to Mauritius and another day down the grief road – all happy progress. And for me it was better than being stuck in an office and driven by someone else’s routine; the ocean was just the ocean, doing its ocean thing and I had to live by its terms. So while I might not enjoy being soaked continuously by feisty waves, I loved the way it was so changeable and fickle, how its forces were calmed or fired up in a flash. That was one of the reasons I had set myself this challenge in the first place. I was in love with it, waves, storms and all. There was so much energy out there, raw and elemental, and I gained my own from this. I had seen big waves on my Warm-up Lap and had experienced some very heavy seas on my Atlantic yacht passage in training, but I knew that this crossing would test me far more than I could ever imagine. The ocean always had many more gears and always had surprises. My blog readers knew it too, especially the old sea dogs among them. An Australian ex-naval-officer wrote a note along those lines one day, halfway between joking and jeering, ‘Remember the sea is a hard taskmaster and the Royal Australian Navy likes a good rescue!’

  On the subject of blogging, my website was being kept up to date by my Mum and my PR folks, Amy and Adrian, and once my web people at Lumpy Lemon had figured out the techy aspect, I was able to upload blogs directly from the boat, using the satellite phone and a tiny handheld computer. It generally took a few minutes while the phone searched for the satellite connection and then fed all the data via space back home to the server. Mum then played postie and copied and pasted all of the comments from the blog into emails for me to read – all in all a great facility to have, even if it was painful for my bank balance.

  Chapter 13

  Becoming a Sea Ani

  ‘Strange is our situation here upon Earth’

  Albert Einstein

  One week in and I had the blues. I was swinging between soaring happiness and quiet glumness, admitting to my diary on Day 7 that ‘I don’t think I would ever want to spend 100 days at sea by myself again.’ This was not a great thing to be writing when I had many more lots of seven days ahead of me.

  ‘TO BE OPENED AFTER ONE WEEK AT SEA’ read the envelope. Inside the
little card it said, ‘Thanks for being such a grand girl. Just to let you know I’m thinking of you and Dad would be proud. Love Mum.’ Tears and smiles refreshed me and I muddled on for another day.

  I refused to confess my state of mind openly to anyone else, though, and hoped it would be just a passing stint. After all, I had just swapped life in the real world for life in a completely surreal one. It was my dreaming which had got me there and it was my rowing which would get me safely to the other side. Never in my life had I been so wholly liable for my own safety or single-mindedly committed to one task. I found this beautiful and scary, liberating and restrictive; it was exactly what I had wanted. I still wanted it. I was just finding it hard to adjust. And the ocean ahead was mind-bogglingly enormous, a huge swathe of emptiness between the two islands on my chart, with only a tiny little red line where I had plotted my progress so far. This mood popped up on and off for another week, set against a general feeling of all-round culture shock. All this and the solitude, sun and hours and hours of rowing were turning me into something like a hormonal teenager, crying one minute and hysterically happy the next, generally a bit confused by all the feelings and not really knowing how to reconcile them. My only real option was to row on, of course, which I found easier said than done at times because it was so tiring. It seemed that I had two settings – tired or really tired – and I found waking up in the morning really hard and getting out of bed even harder. I got angry and frustrated at myself, worried that something wasn’t quite right and already doubting my ability to last one month, let alone four. The mood swings were exhausting, too, and I found that I got distracted easily, getting up from rowing after half an hour to find something else to do and so on and so on throughout the day, interspersing bursts of rowing with other activities.