by Sarah Outen
Ric’s forecast was not so fine, and he predicted more of the same thundery mess as another system rolled through beneath us. True to form, I rebalanced the happy scales with 58 grams and 259 calories of deliciousness in the form of a Mars bar, made even tastier because I had found it while looking for dried mango which, although rather tasty, was easily secondary to the joy encased by the ever rarer red and black wrapper.
I felt at one with the sea again as the wind eased further and I enjoyed a starry night. All I had to do was open the cabin door and I was treated to a view that took my breath away. I had my confidence back now after the storm and confirmed this with an email from Ric, which suggested he was also sure that I could nail this, even with incoming bad weather. ‘Keep it tidy and keep it together,’ he wrote, reassuring me, ‘All will be just fine. You’re a water creature now with all your fishy friends around you. They will be sad to see you go.’
Go?! I still had nearly 1,800 miles to clear before I made it to Mauritius, though I knew already that I would miss them when we went our separate ways. He was right, they were friends now.
As always, the good stuff didn’t last long and I spent Day 54 with Bob out, sweating in the cabin as the rough stuff that Ric had predicted blew through. It created some big, steep waves, close together and messy, which were frightening too as the boat took a few violent slams right over on her side. Outside I might get washed overboard with a cold salty slap from the sea, and inside I was in danger of suffocation from the stifling heat. It seemed like a rock and a hard place and I wished for it to end.
It now felt like I had taken a step backwards again, and I was exhausted by the flux of my volatile emotions. I was frustrated at such stilted progress and, as often happened when I was really tired, also missing Dad; I couldn’t believe that it was close to three years since I had last seen him just after my twenty-first birthday. As I lay there in tears, I realised that it was the first time I had cried in weeks. Truth is, I still missed him and that hurt. Looking back on it now, it seems a sorry picture, a young woman out on the ocean crying her eyes out. But it was restorative and healing, helping me ditch a bit of the frustration of only making 50 miles west in ten days.
It was a wonderful feeling to get back out on the oars on Day 55 to have another shot, even if it meant pulling Bob back on board. This was never an enjoyable task, especially in the dark of the early morning, the night specked only by a few remaining stars and a sliver of a crescent moon. It involved heaving various ropes, hauling them up and over the safety rails and easing the huge parachute up out of the deep with them. With the rise and fall of a sloppy sea pulling against my every move, and the odd rogue wave drenching the boat, it gave the same results as a heavy gym workout. The day grew to be grey and dull, a palette of shades rather than colours, and by early afternoon I was struggling to smile; so much for a sunshine cruise to Mauritius. I put on my orange-tinted sunglasses and transformed my world into a glowing seascape, making everything happier in an instant. An albatross then joined us from nowhere and soared up and down the wave crests, looping back round and round again to take a closer look at us. He was accompanied by a pintado petrel, which seemed keen to be close to the boat. As I rowed on across the rollers, he flapped his stubby little wings to regain his position and sat on the water once more, eyeing me up. The juxtaposition of the 3-metre giant and this black and white spotted, rugby-ball-shaped clown the size of a coconut was amusing and added to the warm feeling I had summoned up from my lethargy. It wasn’t such a grey day after all, particularly as the next was 26 May, my twenty-fourth birthday.
It started with my magically waking up at midnight and checking in with the emails and messages. After a few days of radio silence from the website because Mum had been away, I was overwhelmed by the birthday messages she had forwarded on and the donations to the charity, encouraged by her calls to throw a few pounds at it in honour of my birthday. Before Dad died she didn’t ever use a computer, but now it seems that she was addicted, thanks to my row. I had saved a tin of peaches for the occasion and at midnight I was so close to eating them that for ten minutes I sat with them in one hand and my Leatherman knife in the other before I made myself back down and save them until lunch. I was chuffed that I managed to save my cards and presents until morning, too, and instead went back to sleep for a few more hours. Then I sat up in bed munching snacks while I rifled through the bag of cards and little presents that had been stowed on board, to work out which I would open first. I savoured each message, sticking the cards all over the wall of my cabin. It must have been strange for everyone to write these many months in advance so that I could take them with me, probably not too sure of what they should write to someone so far out to sea all by herself on her birthday. One card even had a badge on it and they all brightened up the cabin hugely, as did the sunshine, which arrived for the first time in days. I sang happy birthday to myself at the top of my lungs as I treated myself to a bucket wash and a splash of perfume, before setting to the oars. With the sun out it was glorious and I enjoyed the rowing, even if it was a pitiful mileage. I didn’t care – it was all towards Mauritius and my birthday lunch was just around the corner.
It consisted of vine leaves and butter beans, washed down with a little bottle of champagne – all of which I had bought in a rush in Australia as a last-minute thought about having a celebratory meal on this day. Roostie had thoughtfully cut out a picture of a birthday cake from times gone by and had written that she really hoped I was happy. I sat back and thought about it, concluding that I couldn’t have been happier, but for an airdrop of real cake. I had spent the morning debating at what time I could legitimately ring Mum. First I thought nine o’clock, then I thought eight and then I decided seven would be OK – this was quite a special day, after all. So after lunch I touched base at home, waking Mum out of a deep sleep, a little bit annoyed to find out that I had missed her call at my breakfast time. She had waited up into the night to try and ring me to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, apparently! This being quite a unique way to spend my birthday, it also attracted some press and I did interviews with various stations, many from the BBC. One of my favourites was with the World Service, who had taken some time to research things and asked some slightly different questions. I had to stifle a chuckle when he thanked me for taking time out to speak to them, since I must have a lot on. As it happens I had looked forward to speaking to them all day.
My final interview of the day was to be live on the BBC Radio 2 Radcliffe and Maconie show, my favourite of them all. Unfortunately for me, it meant waking up at two in the morning, so I was very grateful when my brother Matthew rang me at one o’clock to say hello. Poor little man, he was having a rubbish time because of a knee injury and exams, and I felt sorry to be so far away.
It was always fun speaking with Radcliffe and Maconie as they were such good fun and very supportive of my mission. They brought a lump to my throat that night because Mark said that it was like I was one of the family now and they were proud of me. Coupled with all the messages and donations to the charity from around the world, it made me feel very warm and very loved as I closed my eyes on the most original birthday of my life.
Chapter 24
Serendipity Knocks
‘The sea is everything… an immense desert, where man is never lonely, for he feels life stirring on all sides’
Jules Verne
On the ocean, everything positive was used as fuel, and each and every little bit of progress became worth celebrating, especially when I knew that it could be dashed with a few hours of contrary, fickle winds. My diaries are riddled with talk of weather and mileages, right down to tiny fractions of miles travelled this way or lost that. At times I was obsessed, locked in a battle between frustration and trying to look at it all with equanimity; sometimes the sensible side of me won, sometimes the frustrated imp did. Messages from Ricardo back on shore didn’t always help my mindset, partly because they either left rather too much detail for my imagination t
o fill in or just scared me witless. ‘When he tells me I am brave and then drops into the conversation that there is a front headed my way, I know we’re in for a walloping. Arrgh!’ To his credit, there was plenty of encouragement and good advice, too and I liked it when he acknowledged that I was doing well and making sound progress.
Take care my little ocean rowing girl, you’re doing a top job in getting this job done. When it hurts just keep going, dig deep and focus. If you can keep it together now, then you will make it through to the other side. Just take each day as it comes, one step at a time. I’m with you all the way.
Your mate, Ric
Day 61 saw the return of the decent Red Carpet Weather. The hardest thing through the loops and wiggles and time out with Bob had been maintaining morale, so it was great to feel very upbeat as I waved goodbye to May and welcomed in June, surfing with toppling rollers in the sunshine. After fifteen days of some of the slowest rowing known to mankind, we had a full day hoofing towards Mauritius, leaving fewer than 1,700 nauties left to go. Result, made all the more special by a visit from another Sooty albatross. They were mostly Sooties that I was seeing now, and two different subspecies at that – one paler than the other. I never tired of watching any of the birds, but the albatrosses were a class apart, and I always greeted them with whoops of delight, fading into awestruck silence and a sort of reverie at their mastery of the waves.
The albatrosses weren’t my only regular visitors and I was glad that the Tweedles had managed to stay close by in spite of the stormy weather. Each morning I greeted my stripy cavalry and did a fin count. Over the last few weeks the troupe had steadily grown to around thirty fish. People laughed when I told them that the fish were my friends, but it was true – I felt like I was in good company with them swimming alongside and under the boat. Their bow riding always made me smile, too, mostly because I had never considered that we might travel fast enough to create a bow wave. While the conversation might have been a bit limited, it was always good to see them rushing over to nibble the remnants of dinner when I washed my cooking pot overboard or to have them school around me when I went for a swim. It was entertaining and comforting somehow. With no one else around, I found that I held on to all signs of life very tightly, mesmerised by anything that flew or swam or floated past.
As well as gaining in number, the fishy folk had also grown in size, with a cohort of Senior Tweedles leading the pack. At first, the title of Tweedle le Grand was bestowed upon a fine fellow of 15 centimetres, before he was usurped by The Right Honourable Monsieur Tweedle le Grand, a champion at over 30 centimetres long. A perfect size for dinner, one might think, but I had already declared that fish were friends and not food. In the early days I tried fishing with the hand line my brothers had given me, but was secretly pleased that I didn’t catch any; the thought of eating one of my friends was awful. Besides, I had already lost my only suitable cooking pot overboard and apart from the Tweedles, the other fish I had seen were far too big for me and I would hate to waste one. Given that the world’s fish stocks are being plundered so brutally that they are set to collapse in the next thirty years, I felt I ought to do all I could to save them, not eat them.
At any rate, I was too busy rowing to fish at the moment. As we welcomed in June, Ricardo had given me an ultimatum:
YOU HAVE 6 DAYS TO GET TO 25 DEGREES SOUTH IN ORDER TO MAXIMISE YOUR RED CARPET. I AM TRYING TO GET YOU NORTH ENOUGH OF THE HIGH SO THAT YOU STAY IN ITS EAST TO WEST FLOW.
I was surfing well in the wind and enjoying the sunshine and effort well spent in meaningful progress. By Day 65 we had clocked 200 nauties since lifting Bob five days before and had fulfilled Ric’s request, also rowing over the halfway line, so I was very buoyant. That night, having clocked 50 miles in the right direction, I did what any good mariner might do and made mango jelly to celebrate. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that you can’t make jelly without a fridge, because they’re wrong; it might not have been very solid or elegant but it made for a wonderful breakfast.
Trying to stretch out my back while I gargled the mango jelly round my mouth, I heard a loud ‘Prrfffff’ from just off the bows. ‘IT CAN ONLY BE…!’ I squealed in excitement, and swung round to see the large, smooth, black back of a whale cruising gently by, enjoying the salty air. I saw three surfacings; whether we had just one whale or more, I couldn’t say. It was more than twice the length of Dippers, I estimated, around 15 metres of beautiful whale. I was speechless. It was these moments I had come to sea for, serendipitous encounters with true beasts of the ocean. My mind boggled at this gentle giant and I longed for it to stay near me. My ultimate aim was to swim with one, but this chap (or chappess) was gone too soon, heading into the setting sun and fiery horizon and I probably wasn’t brave enough anyway.
Unfortunately, Ric’s latest message wasn’t so thrilling and brought warnings of a weather shift:
BAD NEWS. THE FRONT HAS CHANGED ANGLE AND SO TOMORROW WHEN THE FRONT HITS IT WILL BRING SW WINDS FOR AGES AND AGES. NO RED CARPET FOR AT LEAST 7 DAYS. NEXT WEEK WILL BE SLOW. LARGE LOW THURSDAY. AFTER THAT LOW IT LOOKS LIKE YOU FINALLY HAVE A GOOD STRETCH AHEAD AGAIN. BUT LOTS COULD CHANGE STILL.
Instead of tucking up the oars for the night, I decided to make the best of it and clock some miles to the west while I could. It was sobering, but after wrapping up in layers and filling my belly with snack bars I took up my seat with a calm resignation; I would do my best and hope that the forecast was wrong. There wasn’t much else I could do apart from sing, which I did to stay awake as I rowed late into the night. It wasn’t like my student days where I could pull all-nighters on a whim. I got tired more easily now, no doubt something to do with the 1,500 miles and the two months I had already rowed.
True to Ric’s prediction, the wind arrived from the south-west, and so with the dawning of Day 67, I found myself growling as I shipped the oars and deployed Bob to stand guard, taking myself on an unwelcome cabin holiday. Everything was grey as I tucked up inside to wait for the bashing. Unfortunately, this coincided with finishing the last of my five books and I was left with two technical meteorology and seamanship tomes, neither of which was at all inspiring. If only I had taken more books along. While packing I had argued that this was a rowing trip, not a reading trip, and had decided that six would be plenty. I had even justified the weight by noting that they would all make useful mops in the event of a flooding; not at all considering that they might be sanity-saving forms of entertainment. The sea wasn’t rough with the new wind, so after a little snooze I left the cabin for the fresh air and took the opportunity to clean and dry out the boat, rid the hatches of mouldy damp and assess the food stocks. While the stores weren’t overflowing with goodies, I was pleased to see that I had managed to save a few treats, including a bag of Minstrels which I decided to keep for my century at sea, now just over thirty days away. That night there was a spectacular display of thunder and lightning, accompanied by a hammering rainstorm and a wind shift to the west, exactly the direction I didn’t want it to come from. I shrank from the thought of how long it would take to reclaim the miles and continue rowing west – we had already lost 20 miles in one day and there was a full week’s forecast of westerlies.
As I woke the next morning, my sixty-eighth day at sea, feeling a bit like I had been punched by a heavyweight boxer all set to pummel me again, I knew that I would drive myself crazy stuck with Bob out all week. I was already restless and ready to row, so I decided to try and row by day and call on Bob by night. Heaving the rudder right over to pull me into the wind, I set to the challenge. As usual, the biggest challenge of all would be maintaining mental composure. Even if I were to row right round the clock I would still lose mileage, potentially hundreds, but I knew that it would be worse if I did nothing at all. My plan was to try and keep the wind from stealing all my miles by rowing north – hopefully there the weather would be less changeable and contrary, and I would have more chance of scooting along at the top of the high pressure system.
&nbs
p; The rowing that week was brutal and demoralising. Trying to row across the waves was punishingly difficult and also rather miserable with lots of cold water sloshings. Albatrosses became ever more important to my morale and I searched for little treats, such as a new silk sleeping bag liner or a bit of music. My northward track meant little or no sunshine on the solar panels as they faced in the opposite direction, so even on bright days the batteries didn’t charge much, which meant that I rationed my music. After a few silent days I craved music so much that I turned Dippers to face the sunshine and sat with Bob out to hold our position so that I could charge the batteries and listen to just one album. Someone had asked a little while before what I found hardest on this trip and I think the enforced music-less days were up there with the boredom of a cabin stint. My other big challenge was my dehydrated food, which I still struggled to eat because I didn’t like it. Of course this meant I was missing out on valuable calories and protein which in turn meant that I was burning muscle instead of fat for the most part; not an ideal situation.
In a bid to combat negativity I often tried to make myself laugh when I was at a low point, literally forcing myself to smile and laugh out loud, maybe calling to mind a funny incident or story to distract myself. Pulling out the chart to see the distance we had already covered was also good, so long as I didn’t focus too closely on the distance left to run. There was song and dance therapy, too, which involved singing at the top of my voice over the waves or listening to something through the speakers (ABBA is particularly good for this, if nothing else). My best trick was the Good Things About Today exercise, which kept me grounded firmly in the essentials and helped me to focus on positive things; a simple but crucial tool in keeping it together. All the same, it was sometimes easier said than done and actually a bit of screaming or shouting or a few tears did the job much better.