by Sarah Outen
I knew that my skin wouldn’t be enjoying the enforced sogginess either, and by the end of the first day my feet and hands were a pulpy mess. I didn’t dare look at my bottom with a mirror to get a full view; I knew it would be disgusting and that the greenish bits would be worse than the day before. Instead I just sluiced the lot with iodine, painting it red.
The monsoon lasted a fantastic thirty-six hours, a full day and a half of cloud dump. I realised that my love of rain on boats wasn’t unconditional and I called on the weather gods to stop, offering up many songs and poems to the deep. I don’t think it worked particularly as I was knocked off my seat too many times to remember and had bruised ribs after a wave threw an oar at full speed into my chest and winded me. It was so rough that I even rowed with my helmet on for the first time in the trip after taking a few slams broadside. It really did feel like I was rowing on the edge of my limits, battling with my fatigue and the conditions, and resting as infrequently as I could manage to keep the cabin dry. Bob went out again overnight and I spent another long twelve hours waiting for the dawn, nervous round the edges and trying to shout down the frustrated imp. We were being blown south faster than we could make west.
Day 81 started with a surprise can of Sprite, which I had found tucked away in one of the hatches. I loved how even after this long at sea I could still find gems like this in the stowage; as I knocked back the tiny can of fizz, I wondered what else I might find. I was spending so much of my sleep time dreaming of roast beef and fresh fruit. In between the rain, which was now trying to decide whether or not it would continue its relentless thrashing, I rowed as hard as I could, tending to my backside with talc and zinc cream as often as possible. It had rubbed red raw in places and was squealy sore, the sort that makes you wince each time you move. As I took my last strokes of the day, coaxing my body to pull just one last time, a Sooty albatross cruised by for a hello, calming me instantly. I sat still on my seat and watched as he patrolled up and down the lines of waves, disappearing as quickly as he had arrived. It was ethereal and I felt like time had stopped for a moment. Still thinking about this wonderful fly-by, I put Bob out as the grey day turned greyer, and whistled in the night. Just as I was putting the finishing touches to the rig I noticed a black shape sliding through the water towards us.
I was scared, my heart fluttering. It was enormous. Dark with a little patch of white. A huge black back rolled up and over the surface with a triumphant ‘Phhhrrrff!’. Whale it is then. It was more than a tad scary as he circled us at close range, swimming right over all of Bob’s lines, giving me visions of entanglement. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the glossy back arch again a few metres away from us. I think there were three of them in all, the biggest easily 15 metres long, a mighty giant from the deep. I had to reach down into my throat and push my heart back into its normal place once I had watched them surface and sail off south, blowing as they went.
I was buzzing after that, no longer bothered that I was going in exactly the direction Ric had told me to avoid or that my toes looked like shrivelled chipolata sausages and my hands like crêpe paper. Three giant mammals, an albatross and a surprise can of Sprite had made it all good again even if I was back out with Bob.
I employed the services of my Olympic hat to keep me in good spirits during my latest cabin stint, remembering the energy of Buffy Williams, a Canadian Olympic rower who had coached us and rowed with us at St Hugh’s. She had a brilliant kick-ass attitude and a commitment to excellence I had never seen before, the sort of coach you always want to please and hang off their every word. I idolised her; I think we all did and so to have this hat of hers was very special.
The wind eventually swung to a more productive direction and I kept Buffy’s hat on for the next couple of days as the seas grew and grew. They were the most frenetic I had ever seen. As I picked my way through waves and lumps, I focused on being an Olympian. I still had it on one evening when I did another interview with Radcliffe and Maconie on Radio 2. They asked how things were going and, as I braced myself against the cabin to stop myself from getting thrown about with the waves, I told them that it was going well.
‘Is it scary?’ they asked.
‘It is right now,’ I replied.
They asked if I had capsized and I said that no, I hadn’t. I didn’t expect to either, having seen Dippers knocked down many times before, but always bounce up without rolling. I said cheerio as they played my chosen track and turned off my light looking forward to making new ground to the west the following day.
The winds were already gusting up to 30 knots when I stepped on deck in my waterproofs just after dawn on Day 83. It was scary out there, wild and white, and I had the impression that it was getting bigger all the time; the sea was so frothy that it looked like it had been snowing. I picked up the oars and started rowing, nervous but relaxing into it once I started pulling. I gritted my teeth and dug in hard with each stroke, easing her forward across the waves. It wasn’t the perfect direction for surfing but it was pretty good, and I clocked my first decent mileage in days.
At lunch I stopped for a proper rest and a decent sleep but was rudely awoken when a wave crashed into the boat and threw us over. Having headbutted the cabin wall, and been squashed by my food bag, I was relieved to work out that we had just broached very violently. I was shaken up but amazed that we hadn’t gone over. I wanted to get outside and carry on rowing – inside was scary. At least out there I could see what was about to bosh me and might have a little chance of avoiding a knock-down.
All I thought about was where to put the next stroke; monster waves made for a clarity of thought I had not had for a few weeks. I had to concentrate. This was not the time to make a mistake; discipline was everything and might mean the difference between life and death. It really was that simple.
There would soon be just thirteen more degrees of longitude until Mauritius; for now I had a mission from Ric. He had given me a target of rowing as far as I possibly could in the next few days, telling me, ‘If ever there was a time to kick ass and row twenty hours a day then this is it. Row like a beast possessed!’ I was perplexed and a little annoyed. Did he think that I wasn’t even trying? I felt inadequate because I knew that twenty hours was impossible. It was a massive effort to row for ten hours each day and sixteen before had been my absolute limit and knocked me out the next day. After some grumbling and fruity language, I decided to go for it and clock as many hours as I possibly could. The opportunity to make miles before rude weather arrived was not one to be missed. It would take all the food I could physically stuff down to sustain a campaign long into the night, so I started Day 84 with an energy drink and a chocolate bar, before cooking up a deep pot of steaming porridge with extra fruit. I made sure to make it thick so that it wouldn’t blow off my spoon in the wind – it was still my favourite meal of the day and I didn’t want to waste any.
It turned out to be one hell of a day, long and exhausting as I rowed well into the night with the stars. I plopped onto my beanbag at 1 a.m. after sixteen hours of rowing, pleased but a little narked to have missed the big two zero. Still, there were plenty more miles left to row. Too tired to get changed, I slept for a couple of hours in all my clothes. When I woke up in the early grey morning, I discovered that no part of my body wanted to move. My hands were tight and clawed. My back was stiff and sore. My bottom stung and burned. I felt like I had been run over by a lorry. So I turned over and floated back into my contented slumber.
I made it back onto the oars a few hours later, again eating and rowing, eating and rowing my way through the increasing waves. Sloppy peaks blasted from the south, threatening to push me north. This was exactly where Ric had told me not to go; he wanted me to row as close to west as I possibly could. So did I. So did everyone. But that would be well-nigh impossible in these seas. I wrote in my blog on Day 85:
‘Just to reassure you that I am actually trying my darndest to head to Mauritius. I’ve just spent nine hours rowing across a
crazy wind hoofing up from the south and even some from the SW.’
Thankfully a Sooty albatross had also flown in that day.
‘Imagine that you are walking along a hedgerow, minding your own business, and turn to find a sparrow flying low range right over your head, about a wing’s length away. Bit of a surprise, eh? Heart might skip a beat. Now imagine the same again but a little bit bigger. An albatross at wing length away, low flying, straight at your head by the time you spot him. I laughed at how I had been spooked by one of the most majestic and peaceful birds to fly these seas, and watched him soaring over the waves, gently and smoothly, graceful and with no effort. There was a master mariner.’
Frustration at my limited progress gave way to concern when I had a new note from Ric, which read, ‘It’s about to get very interesting.’
With his track record of cryptic messages, I was worried. After the last storm he had said that it would all be OK because ‘Sarah, you’re a very brave woman’. ‘Interesting’ scared me.
He promised that new wind would arrive from the east in a few hours but twelve hours later I was still waiting, watching miles slip by to the north. It was a long night in the cabin, listening to the roar of waves outside. Eventually I slept, albeit fitfully, and on Day 86 I woke up to the wildest sea I had seen yet. Fluffy clouds raced across the sky and foam was being whipped up into a fury. My blood pressure had been sky high for days but I think this topped it. I was scared about going outside, intimidated by the sounds I could already hear from where I lay on my beanbag. My stomach lurched each time we dropped off the top of a wave and I giggled nervously. I was tired and not quite awake but had to tease my brain into thinking clearly about what I was going to do.
In my head, there were only two options. Number one was to sit inside all day. That would be horrendous and probably hurt as I was confident of a knock-down. Number two was to go outside and have a little go at rowing. That would be horrendous and probably hurt as I was confident of a knock-down. It was a rock and a hard place, and I didn’t like to make the call. But being outside did have one thing over being inside: at least I could see what was coming our way. Sometimes, running at your monsters isn’t as scary as you first think, and I knew that rowing would feel like a positive move towards progress.
So I slipped into my damp trousers, pulled on my jacket and rootled about for my neck warmers and headbands. I tied Buffy’s hat onto my jacket and pulled it as far onto my head as I could, willing myself to believe that I still had the power of an Olympian within me. Gulp. Come on Sarah, just believe. Next I clipped on my safety line, giving it an extra tug to check it was on correctly, before pasting my face with zinc. There was an element of foreboding about today’s preparation ritual – I was not in the least bit excited about going outside, even though the cabin was now like a sauna. I reached for my sunglasses and seat pad and then peered out across the deck. It was lovely and sunny out there, on top of the waves at least. Water crashed overboard from time to time, occasionally filling the deck completely before draining slowly away. I knew that I would be drenched in an instant. My first task would be to empty the footwell. To do that I would need to get out on deck, clip on, close the door and shimmy to the forward cabin. The bilge pump was in there. It was always precarious when we were running in big seas as my back would be to the waves as I walked forward and reached inside for the pump; I wouldn’t be able to see what was coming. Each time we dropped into a trough we fell into the shade and I felt cool for a moment. But this was no matter because I was soon sluiced when an incoming wave flooded the deck.
I looked at the footwell, the water level with the deck and rolling over the sides. I knew that it would be filled up immediately with a single wave dump but decided to empty it anyway. At least I would start the day with a clear rowing space. It was all about good admin, maintaining standards and all that.
Even though I hadn’t been excited about it before, now I was out I was glad to be in the fresh air, busying myself with little tasks. Once I sat down to the oars I felt ever so slightly calmer, too. I was taking control of the boat and I found I could pick my way through the waves, as though tiptoeing around sleeping giants. That felt good.
Over and over I repeated out loud, ‘Every stroke we take, takes us nearer and nearer; every stroke we take, takes us nearer to home.’
I had Buffy’s hat on, so even though I was scared I was coping. I was learning the power of make believe, forcing myself to believe that everything would be OK. I just had to keep rowing, focussing on one stroke at a time. Just one little stroke. Again and again. It had got me this far so it would get me to the end, too. ‘Come on Sarah, just one stroke. Keep it together now,’ I kept telling myself.
After four hours I stopped rowing. I needed food and a rest, and I also needed to empty the footwell, which had been full since my third stroke of the morning. We had taken waves over the side regularly, and on a few occasions I had been hurled into the safety rails with a face full of salt. It hadn’t been fun but I had made it to lunchtime and I was proud. We were doing it, Dippers and I. And we were even headed west, a real smile-maker.
I let out a squeal of laughter and shouted at the waves; I was soaked, cold and still nervous but I felt well and truly alive. I sang as I bent down to empty out the footwell, pumping hard. I was leaning forward with my shoulder on the bulkhead and had one leg on the side of the boat as I worked. Lunch and sleep were just around the corner.
Chapter 28
The Full 360
‘No mercy, no power but its own controls it. Panting and snorting like a mad battle steed that has lost its rider;
the masterless ocean overruns the globe’
Herman Melville
I heard the wave rush at us and I felt it hit. Before when this had happened the boat might slam over on her side but we always jerked back to the upright in a moment. This time we went right over. We capsized and tumbled down the side of a massive wall of a wave.
I was terrified that I might hit my head and I hoped that I could hold my breath. Everything was white because of the foam, yet dark because I was under the water. It was also the loudest thing I had ever heard in my life. Time seemed to stop still and I felt like I was suspended in a waterfall. I suppose I was.
My lungs started to burn and I clamped my mouth shut, gritting my teeth. I hadn’t had a chance to take a breath before the wave hit so I didn’t know how long I would last. I felt saltwater invading my body and rushing past me in all directions. My lungs burned on.
‘Just hold on, Sarah. Just. Hold. On,’ I told myself as we rolled on, unaware of which way up I was. There was nothing I could do but hold my breath and hope that air would arrive before death, that Dippers would roll round and that my lifeline hadn’t detached. I was like a rag doll, passively rolling through the surf, not sure if I would see tomorrow.
I was resigned to my fate but equally determined to hold on as long as I could; I was not going to take a mouthful of water until my lungs imploded. They burned some more and I gritted my teeth even harder, grinding them together until I took the sweetest breath of my life.
We had rolled the whole way round and I broke the surface of the water as I came up from under the hull. I gulped lungfuls of air, coughing to clear the salt while I looked round to work out my next move, screaming hoarsely to nobody. Clinging to the grab line with both hands I kicked my legs to drive me up higher so I could climb back on the boat. I was still attached by my lifeline, so I still had a chance. But no matter how hard I kicked and pulled, I couldn’t get up over the side deck. I cursed and sank back into the water to catch my breath, looking over my shoulder at the grey monsters still charging my way. The water around me was white and fizzing with bubbles. I tried sinking into the water and then pushing up on my arms to create some momentum to climb back in but again I failed.
I felt very isolated. No one could hear me scream and no one could help me back on board. ‘Come on, Sarah,’ I growled at myself, talking myself through
the steps I needed to make. I noticed that my lifeline was caught around the metal gate which holds the oar in place and saw that in this tangled state the line wasn’t long enough to let me back on board. Frustratingly, I couldn’t reach it to untangle it either; I would need to undo the clip to climb back on board. Simple but scary and I would need to do it as quickly as possible. Having just seen my seat pad whipped away by the waves, never to be seen again, I knew I would have no chance if I got it wrong. I felt even smaller and even more alone.
The moment of unclipping was difficult – the line was pulled taut and my fingers fumbled with the safety clip. My other hand tightened around the grab line on the boat; I was literally holding on for my life. If we capsized again now only my hand would connect me, a sobering thought. I managed to scramble back on board under the safety rail on my third attempt, so excited to be alive. I wasn’t out of danger; I needed to clip back on and check Dippers for damage. Once we were connected again, I let out a huge shriek, a combination of happiness and fear. I was half drowned, maybe, but I was well and truly alive. I patted Dippers’ cabin and thanked her for looking after me; she had just given me my ticket to another day. Turning to face the waves again, I stood on my tiptoes, trying to spot any big ones rolling in from the south. They all looked big but as there were things to do I just resolved that if I was outside I would always be facing the waves.
Desperate for anything resembling human contact I did a piece to camera immediately, whimpering my way through the recording. My voice shook and I shivered as I tried to maintain some sort of composure. Then I went about sorting the boat, assessing the damage and re-stowing strewn gear. Everything in the forward cabin was where it shouldn’t have been and my own cabin looked like a field raided by elephants – a complete disaster zone. The thought of pumping out the footwell again didn’t exactly fill me with excitement, but it had to be done. Standards again.