by Sarah Outen
I put out a Mayday call on the VHF and turned up the volume to listen for an answer. None came and I was left with the crackling squelch ringing in my ears. I cursed the coastguard for their silence – having pestered me all day, where the hell were they now that I needed them? Nowhere. I rummaged about through the mess and found my satellite phone in a pool of water. While it was splash proof I didn’t think it was pool-of-water proof. And I was right; it didn’t even switch on. I couldn’t even find the spare one – the hatches were in complete disarray after the rolling, everything in the wrong place. Next, I reached for the EPIRB – a nifty satellite transponder ‘only to be used in situations of grave and imminent danger’. Well if this wasn’t imminently bloody dangerous then I didn’t know what was. So I pulled the pin and put it to one side, flashing and beeping. Falmouth Coastguard back in the UK would pick up my signal sooner or later and coordinate a rescue. Finally, someone knew that I needed a hand out of this.
There was only one thing left for me to do, and that was to let Ric know where I was and that I was alive and in need of some help. I had to put up a fireworks display of flares. I remember it being exciting when we did this in training. Now it was anything but; for the first time in my voyage I felt truly lonely. It was after half past six and almost black with night as I ripped off the cap and pulled the cord of the first one, shooting a burning red parachute up into the air, filling the sky above me with glowing trails. I willed it to burn on, looking down at the water to protect my eyes and noticing various fish going about their business on the reef as though nothing had happened. I guess it hadn’t for them. Everything went black again as the flare burned out and grey swirls of smoke drifted downwind towards the lights sparkling on shore. Surely someone must have seen it – it seemed like a mini atom bomb to me. My eyes were fixed in the direction of the island, where I knew everyone was waiting, no doubt also worried sick. I hollered with glee when I saw three white flashes, followed by another three. In maritime code this means ‘Help is on its way’. I was being rescued! Wahooooo! Then came a crushing low with the realisation that it might have been simply a branch swinging in front of a street light and maybe there was no rescue coming. Maybe I would be all alone out there all night.
I had already dismissed the daft idea of swimming over the reef and ashore – at least Dippers and I were bigger together and therefore easier to spot, even if we were only a mile out. I thought about floating her off the reef and paddling her out. To do this I would need to release the rudder, which I was sure was now digging into the reef. I clipped on my safety line and put my knife in my teeth so that I could climb over the back cabin to reach the rudder. Hanging at arm’s length above the water, gripping with my toes, I couldn’t actually reach the rudder so had to undo my safety line to wriggle forward. I was relieved to see that the rudder was floating, just held by its steering lines, which I sawed through with my knife before manoeuvring back onto the deck. I was amazed that the rudder was barely scratched, with only a few broken fittings; Jamie was one maestro boat builder and our reef meeting had proved it.
After trying and failing to float her off the reef by pushing and punting with my oar, I realised these were not viable options as she had sunk into the coral enough to make it impossible. I put up another flare and a smoke signal, then set about making the boat as safe as I could and preparing for a rescue.
Next came dry clothes and more lights – I needed to keep warm and make Dippers look like a Christmas tree, which I did with those funky snapping glow sticks and a strobe light attached to my broken oar, hoisted as high as I could get it. Then I filled my big dry bag with all my precious things as I figured I would only be lifted out by chopper and would therefore have to leave Dippers behind. As I stepped back out onto the deck dragging my huge bag after me, I spotted a helicopter flying out of the airport, its search light down on the water. Someone was coming to rescue me. Relief and joy surged through me as I swung the oar in the air, strobe light flashing so that they could see me. The ordeal would soon be over.
Chapter 33
Mum, I Just Rowed from Australia
‘The journey is the reward’
Chinese proverb
I could still hear the bee-like drone of the helicopter, and watched in disbelief as it flew in completely the opposite direction. Was another person being rescued in Mauritius tonight? I stood on deck waving the oar madly. Then I let off an air horn, the bone-rattling roar deafening me.
The chopper banked round and started towards me. I waved on and then screamed as he flew straight over the top of me, apparently oblivious, despite the fact we were the only illuminated thing in a sea of black. I held up a smoke flare and shone the beam of my head torch on the torrent of thick red smoke that bubbled out of the tube and floated downwind, towards shore. I hoped that the searchlight on the chopper would pick it up and follow it back to me, though with his recent performance I wasn’t very hopeful, convinced that it was being flown by a twelve year-old.
It reached the shore and turned again to me, tracking low with its light down. This time there was no way that it could miss me and I put everything in to my waving, hoping he would see me. It hovered above me and jiggled left and right, fixing me in his tube of light. There was no answer when I tried asking him what he wanted me to do on the VHF, so I just stood with my arms outstretched in a V, the international ‘Get me out of here now’ sign. The hatch opened and I expected to see a smiling young rescuer appear and swing down to me on a winch. Instead, the winch swung down to me by itself, the rescue sling swinging in front of my face like a pendulum. I waited and waited, but it was clear that we hadn’t done the same training. In mine, I had been distinctly told not to touch the winch until it had been in the water, or you will get a fully charged zap from the static electricity that builds on the wire. Goodness only knows what this maverick had been taught in his training, or indeed if he had ever done any.
With no other solution jumping out at me, I decided to carry on my V-shaped vigil and wait. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long because I noticed some shadows and noises with a light moving towards me from a few hundred metres away, coming at me from across the reef. Blinded somewhat, I couldn’t make out who they were until I was hugged from behind by a Mauritian who, after kissing me, explained that he was Yan and that I wasn’t to worry about a thing. I was already whimpering and apologising for causing so much hassle, a barrage of questions streaming out. I was interrupted by another hugger from behind and felt the prickles of Ric’s stubble on my face; he gripped me tightly, also telling me not to worry and asking me if I was OK. I pulled back from him and asked if it counted, if the row was official after my reef landing.
His smile widened into a huge grin as he laughed. ‘Of course it does. You said you would hit Mauritius, and you did!’
With Ric and a few other local guys, we heaved and pulled Dippers off the reef, waving the chopper back to base once we had her floating. It was just a little way to their boat on the clear water side and then another short tow to the pontoon where Mum and Matt were waiting. I was lifted up into their boat and hugged from all sides by Mauritians who spoke very fast French which I didn’t understand – but their smiles said it all. As I shivered on deck under a towel, Ric handed me bits of food and water, the first I had touched in hours. On the one hand I could relax, but internally I had fireworks going off and my heart was charging along to a rapid beat, singing and dancing and screaming alternately as I struggled to comprehend everything that had happened and was about to happen. We rang everyone to say that I was safe and on my way in, and then Ric turned to me and asked what had happened. He fell silent as I told him and then apologised for having made me change my course. I assured him that I didn’t blame anyone but myself. Shit happens. I should have insisted on knowing the name and details of the captain of the escort boat and confirming all details directly, rather than taking Marcel’s word for it. At least then we could have looked for an alternative when it turned out to be w
holly inadequate. I was just chuffed to have come out of it in one piece. Once again, I felt that alive was such a good thing to be.
Worried that the shore party might have gone home for tea, I had one last question for Ric, ‘Are they still waiting for me?’
He grinned again. ‘Of course they are, my little English rowing girl. There were about twenty people there when I left.’
My heart skipped a beat; twenty people was a crowd after all that time by myself and I was nervous. I hoped I wouldn’t faint or do anything silly. So, bearing in mind I was already nervous about the thought of twenty people, imagine what I felt when we neared the jetty to see a crowd of about two hundred people waiting for me, all clapping and cheering and shouting. Someone held up a flare and lit the place up, to the sound of more cheering and clapping. I was half crying, half laughing and absolutely speechless, gripping the boat.
A microphone was pushed in front of my face briefly before I heard Mum’s voice and turned to see her. Matt appeared and the three of us went in for one of the best hugs I had ever felt. He was the first to cry and then Mum as we gripped each other tightly. I kept reassuring them that I was OK and we didn’t need to worry any more. I pulled out of it and asked her with a smile to guess what.
‘What?’ she said.
‘I’ve just rowed from Australia!’ I shrieked and went back in for another hug. I could feel the tension and angst melting away, our bodies relaxing into each other, acknowledging the journeys we had all made and the trials we had each faced with that ocean. I also liked to think that Dad was there, too, wrapping his arms around us.
I jumped back on to Dippers for one last goodbye, sorry to be leaving her even though I was glad to have arrived. I patted her bulkhead and turned off the electrics, and closed the hatch tight before being hauled up onto the pontoon by the arms hanging down towards me. My wobbly legs managed to stand without too much effort and various people hurled themselves at me for hugs or asking me to sign their arms or shake their hands. Guy’s mum, Christina, was wrapped in a Union Jack and handed me a box of chocolates before giving me a huge hug. She had rowed that ocean too, just like my mum. Her boys from Flying Ferkins were there, as well as the Southern Cross lads, James and James, all with huge beards and shaggy hair. Looking round at them, it was crazy to think that we had all just rowed from Australia – but how different our journeys had been. Each had tested their respective rowers to their darkest depths and shown them some beautiful highs, and I suspected it would have changed each of us forever. We each of us had a mutual, deep respect – we were part of the club now.
Someone then held out a box of pizza and asked if I would like it. Of course I would! Who wouldn’t after four months? I stepped forward and then fell backwards into the arms of those behind me, my land legs clearly still in the boat. When I did finally make it to the pizza, it was every bit as delicious as I had hoped, even if I did only manage one piece – my shrunken stomach and nerves prevented me doing much at all apart from grinning.
After a while of answering questions and signing bits of paper and various bits of people’s bodies, I was helped to the car and land life beyond, my body aching with every step – not just with the effort of walking again, but with the pain of finishing the greatest journey of my life. Three years and over 4,000 miles in the log. As I turned my back on the ocean, I was finishing a story – one of the happiest and saddest and most challenging and rewarding of my life. I had been through the best of times and the worst of times, hurt and healed, and grown up. It had been an incredible journey and I was proud to have made it, grateful to have survived and humbled by the power and beauty of all that I had seen out there and all the wonderful warmth and support I had experienced from around the world, from my team and others. Without them it would have been a very different story and I wouldn’t have made it; it had taught me that no woman (or rower) is an island, not even way out to sea in a boat by themselves.
In my time at sea I had tasted something so pure and refreshing, addictive and mind-bogglingly brilliant that I knew that one day, somewhere, I would go back for some more, in spite of the frustrations and fear and monotony. It is magic out there – like nothing else in the world. Although I didn’t know where or how or when or who with, I just knew that I would.
Chapter 34
The Afterlife
‘The adventure is over. Everything gets over, and nothing
is ever enough. Except the part you carry with you’
E. L. Konigsburg
My first days on land were very surreal. Everything was a first. The first sleep in a proper bed. Taps. Cupboards. Rooms. Cold drinks. Cars. Money. Shops. Clean clothes. Choice.
I woke early on 4 August in the hotel after just a few hours of fitful sleep and I showered briefly, still keenly aware of saving water, while enjoying the sensation of warm water running over my tired body. Then I stood open mouthed at the wardrobe where Mum had laid out all my clothes, not quite knowing what to do. The array of clean, fresh clothes was a bit confusing and it took me a while to choose. I then slid on my flip-flops for the first time in four months, slipped out of the room and hobbled down the stairs as carefully as I could towards the beach to walk on the grass. Walking is a bit of an overstatement – it definitely needed some work to pass for that, but one foot moved in front of the other and conveyed me forward with a vague semblance of an upright mammal – I must have looked a sight. Either very damaged or very drunk, I suppose. The wind swished through the palm leaves and was kicking up the sea into a field of white horses beyond the reef. It was lovely and I sat quietly in the morning sun, ruffling my fingers in the grass as I shuffled to find a comfortable position for the sores. I sat there with my legs outstretched, leaning on my elbows, soaking in the sight of the ocean from this side of the beach, my nose twitching at all the new smells and my eyes drinking up all the different colours. I breathed deep and relaxed into the space and the quiet – it felt like my very own piece of paradise. Breakfast was just as novel, both for me and for Mum. I wanted to try some of everything on offer and it seemed Mum couldn’t stop smiling at me and photographing me with Matthew, who really just wanted to get on and have a good feed, like any young lad.
We drove to Ric’s apartment along roads with sugar cane fields on either side, and I spent the rest of the day in phone calls to journalists, stretched out on a sofa. I enjoyed the interviews for the fact that I was speaking to more people than I had spoken to in the last four months, and I laughed each time they asked if I was OK to wait for a moment. Having just rowed the Indian, I was Queen of Waiting. The most common question was ‘How does it feel to have broken all these world records?’ I was the first woman and youngest person ever to solo the Indian, as well as the youngest woman to row solo across any ocean. My answer every time was that I was just so happy to be alive, that the records didn’t really matter. Maybe one day they would, but mostly I was relieved to have survived. I felt like I had been through the mill, physically and emotionally bruised and a bit battered, so I knew that simply being alive would feel exhilarating for a while to come yet. I had some coral reef in my foot and it was starting to swell up into an ugly red mess, throbbing as the hours went on and causing my hobbly gait to become even more hobbly and ridiculous.
The following ten days in Mauritius provided many highs and many lows as my emotions freewheeled crazily. It was great seeing Matthew chilling out and enjoying himself, and likewise to see my cousin Jeremy again, who flew out for a few days. We were being hosted by a wonderful Mauritian man, Nicolas Vaudin, and his crew at the luxury resort of Anahita, who had offered their full services to us. Meanwhile I was running on overdrive, incapable of making much sense when I spoke (all at 100 miles an hour) and crying at the weirdest of moments. Some of the simplest tasks seemed to freak me out – partly because I was so used to living in my tiny 6-metre capsule and partly because I was so used to doing it alone. I found it hard to delegate and let other people take control. It was all very strange and I im
agine not just for me either.
The evening I landed we had left Dippers down on the beach in Mahébourg, from where she had been towed round to the little coastguard depot just at the end of the bay. One afternoon, we all set out with a couple of the resort staff to go and collect her. I was eager to see her again and bring her home and sort her out; I had missed her. I wasn’t quite prepared for the emotion it would stir up as we headed back out there. As our speedboat bounced over the waves I was stopped in my tracks by the sight and sound of the reef, breakers thundering into white surf. It chilled me and I shivered to think what we had been through. As our boat slowed through the shallows and into the little cove where Dippers was moored, I went silent and felt a lump in my throat, threatening to make me cry. Poor little Dippers looked a right state; the ensign cut, the light broken off and the oar hanging limply. Even from the outside, it was clear that we had run the gauntlet. Thoughts of what might have been flashed vivid and clear and everyone else stood quietly and watched me. I got out and walked towards the coastguards, standing on the bank smiling at me. I tried to smile back but the lump was really big by now and I couldn’t see for tears in my eyes. I climbed on board my favourite friend reluctantly and stood still, silent and sorry and sad. The coastguards were adamant that I should open the doors and check that everything was in order, but I didn’t want to; it would hurt too much. It felt like I was visiting a teammate in hospital after an accident and I was sorry that she looked so forlorn. I tried getting off the boat without looking but the coastguards insisted I check, so I opened the main cabin hatches. Both stank of stale water and were in complete disorder. My spent flare cases sat on my beanbag in my cabin alongside the EPIRB and I could see only empty spaces where my photos had been stuck to the wall – I had torn them down into my dry bag when I was waiting to be picked up.