A Dip in the Ocean

by Sarah Outen

  My biggest indecision often came at sunset, as my world grew shadowy and black. The trade-off between racking up miles and staying comfortable and dry was a tough call. The times I rowed for sixteen or eighteen hours were punishing and the following day I always slept until late, utterly knackered, the tank completely empty. Equally, when the seas were sloppy and the rowing difficult, the decision to stop was easy. But if the sea state was rowable and I was feeling OK, I often donned my warm gear and rowed until treated to my first drenching. I never tired of night-time rowing and I loved gazing up at the stars, sometimes learning the constellations, sometimes just staring. Life out there was so peaceful, my life was so uncluttered. I lived out my routines by the rhythms of the sun and moon and really did feel like I was a part of it all – a tiny speck maybe, but part of the drama nonetheless. The contrast between the immensity of this voyage in my eyes, with the insignificance of it in the grand scheme of things, was quite humbling but also quite comforting too. Whatever happened to me and whatever decisions I might make, the world would still turn as if nothing had happened.

  Light pollution on land can really ruin our view of the night sky. Out at sea it is as black as black can be, which makes moon rises very impressive. On Day 44 I had watched the most stunning I have ever seen; it was like something from a fairy tale. Thick nimbus lined the front of the stage, lit up by the rising moon behind which then turned them gently yellow, embossing them with deep shadows and sending silvery shafts of moonlight back down to the ocean below. It was easy to imagine an artist sitting on some scaffolding painting an angry Zeus into the picture, leaning out from his cloudy lookout to zap the mortals in the world below.

  Chapter 20

  A Night Out with Bob

  ‘A smooth sea never made a skilled mariner’

  Anon

  It turned out that Zeus was about to lean out and vent his fury on my little bit of Indian Ocean. Just a day after Ricardo’s promise of ‘perfect’ settled weather, he emailed to say that I would have some interesting stuff happening. Whereas the last weather zone had been defined by little wind and lots of stable high pressure, the next one would be rougher, with more wind and more rain. So long as it was in the right direction I didn’t mind. The thing is, he couldn’t be sure exactly when this third sector might start – it wasn’t like arriving at a Tube stop, apparently. Only after some consistent changes in the weather patterns would we know that I had arrived. Ric’s prediction for the week ahead showed changeable weather with fresh weather bubbles blowing through, often with 40 knots of wind and thundery rain banks. That is a lot of wind, even in a big boat. There wasn’t a lot I could do but row on and make the best of it until I was unable to row. I imagined that if the winds really did blast from the south and the west, then my westward progress would be annihilated, so my rowing would be about damage limitation rather than making new miles. I didn’t want to go too far north, so the southerly winds wouldn’t be welcomed at this stage.

  As it was, I was being transported south in a current, which I found mildly annoying but useful for juicing up the solar panels, which hadn’t seen the sun for a few days as we had been rowing north-west, meaning that the batteries were rather low. I was already rationing my water and had even opened my spare jerry can from the forward cabin. I always seemed to be walking on a knife edge with my water supplies.

  Day 45 wasn’t the happiest of days on board Dippers; the wind howled and the swell was big and bouncy, certainly not the calm that Ric had forecast for the few days ahead. There I was thinking that my daily run of songs was keeping the wind gods in good spirits, but perhaps they weren’t so fond of my medley. Early evening, we happened upon some huge cloud banks, stretching right across the sky, which brought both rain and a wind shift. Unfortunately, we were being blown back towards the Australian side of the ninety-first degree. Having tried to row against it, across it, over it, under it, through it and around it all day with no westward progress at all, I called on my sea anchor, Bob, to reduce the collateral. I was shattered.

  It wasn’t just my mileage going a bit pear-shaped either. While investigating the extent of rusting in my tool box, I had found that every single one of my spare fuses had been enjoying their own electrolysis party and were now disintegrating and useless. This meant that if any in the system should blow up, I would have to do some creative swaps to solve the problem. I just had to hope it wouldn’t come to that. Most mariners will agree that the electrics are the soul of a boat, especially in our techie age; if they go down, things can get critical. Things didn’t get any better when I reached for my camera and discovered that the desiccant sachet had burst inside the waterproof pouch, exploding granules everywhere, some even wiggling their way into the camera body. ‘Oh why did they let me out to sea in a boat by myself?’ I shouted at the waves, which were by now pushing me in completely the wrong direction. I hung my head and mustered a little laugh; in the grand scheme of things, this was nothing at all. I had already nipped under the ‘2,000 miles until Mauritius’ sign, which meant that well over 1,000 now stood between me and my Aussie mates and that made me proud. So while it wasn’t my favourite pastime to be drifting back from whence we had splashed, I was sure that I was stoked with sufficient bounce to treat the evening out with Bob with a little smile. Most importantly I was OK and Dippers was OK, which meant that life was good really. And when life is good, a Mars bar is a perfect way to celebrate. So I found one and ate it, making it three in one day.

  Unless you live in a chocolate factory, three Mars bars a day is rarely sustainable. If only it was; I reckoned I could comfortably put away five a day and still have room to spare. It certainly wasn’t sustainable where I was because I had only taken a box of forty-eight out to sea with me and I have always been useless at rationing treats. Chocolate was mostly munched immediately upon discovery on my boat, and I actively searched through my day bags to find more. A quick fix of a few bars and I was sorted, not bothered by knowing that finite really does mean finite and that I would have to endure a chocolate-less run in to Mauritius. I was resigned to the fact but found that I couldn’t do anything to stop myself: I am a die-hard chocoholic so the urge cannot be ignored. Any woman will sympathise, I am sure. I bet they’re reaching for a Mars or two now in solidarity. In fact, before I went away, when journalists asked me what I was worried about, I said that it was a dwindling chocolate supply. They all laughed. Yet here I was just over a third of the way into the voyage, anticipating the loss of a critically endangered species. It only made me smile because it reminded me of a car journey with Dad when I asked him if he would like a Mars bar. Of course he would. ‘Oh yes, so would I. But I don’t have any – I just wanted to know if you wanted one,’ said I, and chuckled loudly.

  Still, Mars bar or no, I had to find good things to keep my mojo ticking. A visit from my second favourite fish that evening, just as it started pouring with rain, did just the trick and made me smile. Bluey the dorado was my second favourite; first place being claimed by my faithful Tweedles. A few more of Bluey’s mates arrived as night fell and they swam alongside the boat, glowing like silver torpedoes. Even later on when I went out to brush my teeth and check on Bob, they were still cruising alongside.

  Overnight we shot south and gained a barely tangible mile to the west. Wahooo! I smiled at the contrast with the week before when I had made perfect westerly progress with the minutest of deviations to the north and south. Now I was excited about any sort of progress at all, almost counting it in metres, not miles. I loved the sea for exactly this reason – it is fickle and ever changing.

  The next day (Day 46) was even wetter and even slower, but although I barely made 4 miles west, I was calm and content. I still relished the simplicity of my days and being so unstressed in comparison to my 100-mile-an-hour lifestyle at home, where I ended each day by making lists of things to do the following day. Out here, I made lists each day of all the reasons to smile, even if it was as basic as ‘Thank goodness today is over.’ Aft
er all, what wasn’t killing me would be making me stronger and I was sure that I was growing all the time, expanding my comfort zone and pushing my limits. And that is always good, even if you only notice afterwards. So far the most noticeable changes were in my confidence, patience, and in my pain and fear thresholds – all of which were expanding. I was more chilled out than I had ever been and had gained a sense of perspective. Generally after any ruffled feathers, I could put things into a positive light and move on; if it wasn’t a matter of life or death then it wasn’t worth worrying about. I think my sense of humour had changed a bit too, warping slightly, perhaps inevitably, after so many days laughing at my own jokes and at things which otherwise probably wouldn’t be funny at all.

  All this clutter-free headspace gave me plenty of time to think about life after the ocean and what I might do next. I had hoped I might find a golden ticket with an answer on it, but so far I was firmly undecided between teacher training (the sensible life) and the adventure of further expeditions. Swinging wildly between the two, I often started off the day thinking sensibly and then finished it by dreaming of more adventures, using my GPS to zoom in and out on countries and plan routes. After a few weeks on the waves I had set my sights on the world and started to scheme about a human-powered trip around the planet. I was loving life on the blue stuff, and I wanted to experience land crossings too, meeting people and discovering places. Of course, I couldn’t be sure how I might feel when I reached Mauritius. Who knows, I might have a Sir Steve Redgrave moment and say, ‘If anyone sees me anywhere near a boat again, you have my permission to shoot me.’ Given that Sir Steve then went on to win another Olympic gold medal after saying those immortal words, I decided it wouldn’t do any harm to change my mind later on.

  By teatime on Day 46, the wind had veered to the north, big cumulus clouds were marching in from the horizon and Bob came back out to play as we started losing ground. Ric’s rough stuff was on the way and Zeus would soon be making mischief. The corona around the moon added to the sense of foreboding; while they are beautiful to look at, they always give mariners the willies, for they signal nasty stuff ahead. Around this time some of my blog followers, bless them, told me that the all-female crew of the Row Angels, part of the race fleet, were passing about 20 miles to the south of me, and suggested I might like to meet up with them or perhaps talk on the radio. I loved the idea in principle, but in practice it would be impossible. VHF radios only work on ‘line of sight’ (i.e the aerials need to see each other); for our little rowing boats, only one metre off the water, this would be possible only if we were in ironed-out pancake seas and within a couple of miles of each other. I was chuffed to have held them off for this long; with four of them rowing it had taken them nearly thirty days to overtake me. Not that I’m competitive or anything.

  I appreciated all of the blog followings, messages and emails forwarded through by Mum, particularly the lively debate stirred up when I posted news of my recent swims. There were the jokers who said they had spotted my white bottom on Google Earth, the lady who warned me of shark attacks and pleaded with me not to do it again, and plenty who were very much in approval and indeed a little bit envious. One chap implored: ‘Ignore the nervous nellies, Sarah. If courage were the issue you wouldn’t be where you are. Help us all feel what it is to be truly alive in a world that is not of our own making. You go girl.’

  Absolutely, mate. That was the essence of all of this, even on a day when I ended up 5 miles closer to Perth than I had been after my breakfast or on the rainy days or the anchor days. Any day and every day, I wanted to feel alive; I don’t think there can ever be anything better than that.

  Chapter 21

  Looping the Loop

  ‘We must free ourselves of the hope that the sea will

  ever rest. We must learn to sail in high wind’

  Aristotle Onassis

  I woke to a stuffy cabin on Day 47, growing damp with drips from the leaky light fitting in the cabin roof, and restless after twenty-four hours out with Bob. Miles continued to un-tick themselves on my GPS as the wind blew us backwards. I had a pick-me-up Cadbury breakfast and tried to stay upbeat about losing my hard-earned miles. The biggest struggle for me was the waiting game; I am such a competitive person, even with myself, that I didn’t like to sit around and do nothing, especially after all the good progress of recent weeks. It didn’t help that it was so boring inside the cabin. So I tried to tell myself that it is better to be utterly bored than to feel nothing at all – if it ever came to that, that would be a time to really worry.

  Looking out across the waves through my little hatch while I nibbled at the chocolate wrapper, trying to pull off every last trace of chocolate, it didn’t look too heavy outside and I toyed with the idea of rowing. It was raining very heavily so I would be guaranteed an instant soaking and the seas were really too heavy to make any ground at this time. I tucked the idea away in a box, trying to employ some of that recently learned patience and instead lay down to snooze and make use of the enforced rest time.

  I did manage some rowing that day, albeit only for a few hours and at the pace of a geriatric snail. It wasn’t great for morale and I approached dinner time feeling low. I wanted biscuits but only had one packet left and didn’t want to eat them this early on. I also craved hearing sound other than my own voice but my batteries were struggling, so I couldn’t afford to play any music, not even one little song. I had also been soaked all day and was now soggy and cold, and still behind on mileage. So I did what most folks do at such times – I rang home to rave a bit. Phone calls home always work wonders; Mum listened and cooed in all the right places, and then filled me in on all the news. With just 3 miles left to row until I regained all my lost ground to the west, I rowed on into the night for a few hours, making almost intangible progress. I finished at the oars after a full day’s rowing, but having made only 7 miles in the right direction. I didn’t like going to bed while I was still behind on the mileage but I reassured myself that there was no point in exhausting myself unless it was urgent; a marathon not a sprint after all, Sarah. ‘Please let us end up west in the morning,’ I murmured as I snuggled up onto my beanbag for the night. I still wasn’t very good at going the wrong way, not for three days in a row. As you can imagine, it gets a bit old hat after a while.

  Looping the loop at sea in a rowing boat is big news: I don’t mean capsizing, just moving forward into new territory after a backwards wiggle with contrary weather. It felt like a fresh start, an opportunity for some progress. Day 48 felt like this when I woke up with just a one-mile gap before I looped my loop. One tiny mile. That equated to fifteen minutes’ worth of walking on land or of rowing on a surfing day, yet it might be impossible if the wind played tricks on me. There were lovely messages from my blog followers during that period of poor weather, all of them very encouraging after seeing me losing miles. It felt like I had hundreds of Mums all saying ‘There, there, dear – you can do it.’ One in particular made me smile inside and seemed to sum up everything that my voyage was about:

  Every great undertaking in life, even the smallest ones, are opportunities for finding within yourself something you didn’t know you had, and these awakenings always come with a price. The discovery comes when all the cheering stops and when the task ahead is greater than the task you left behind. The universe is wide open in front of you. How and why I found you I do not know and I cannot fathom what you are doing. The silence you are experiencing is a gift – listen carefully to it. It is within you and without you.

  Indeed, the task ahead was still greater than that which I had completed and yes, the universe was wide about me. On the silence I wasn’t so sure; normally I looked at it this way, but now I was so bored of my own bad singing that I craved some new tunes. I was being tested and I guess I didn’t like it. If only the sun would shine, then I would have music. I would also have enough juice in the batteries for my water maker to run, too. By now I only had half a litre of water left in my day ta
nk, meaning a breakfast without porridge.

  I decided to convert the electric pump into a manual one. As I stumbled through the manual, unscrewing bolts and teasing pistons and coupling pins apart, my language flipped from controlled and annoyed to no-holds-barred swearing. I couldn’t find the right spanner and I later discovered that I didn’t have the one size that I needed. I had thirteen others but not the right size. What a muppet. Why hadn’t I checked before I left land? Then I discovered that the unit had been mounted in a place so awkward that I couldn’t actually pump it manually at all. If the batteries went completely, it would be useless and I would have to row 20 kilograms of redundant kit. I smiled; I would get over it. I had to; there was no one else to do it for me. I opened the hatch to let some air into the stuffy cabin and try and quell the waves of nausea that were gurgling from below. I rested my head on the bottom part of the hatch and breathed in the coolness from outside, listening to the gentle rocking of the boat and tried to put it all in perspective. Two hours messing around with it hadn’t been much fun but at least now I knew. And in a way, once you realise you have no control over something, it becomes less of a worry. Nonetheless, with all this dodgy weather and the run of little mishaps my emotions were swinging quite wildly and I needed to gain some sort of control over it all. After I had reassembled the water maker I was ecstatic to find we were about to complete the loop and start breaking fresh ground again. I turned the boat into the sunshine while I stopped for lunch and rounded it off with a call to Andy and Guy, my friends on Flying Ferkins. I always enjoyed speaking to them and finding out where they were. Out of all the six boats left in their race (six had dropped out by now), they were the only ones I knew and had any contact with. Twenty minutes or so flew by as we swapped stories and weather forecasts like old sea dogs. My ears pricked up when they mentioned that they were due a storm at the end of the week. Looking at my sea chart we were only a few hundred miles apart, which suggested that their storm would be mine, too. I wondered why Ric hadn’t mentioned anything yet.