With the trip scheduled to last four to five months, here I was only in my third week. To be already so far behind schedule made me fear the worst. Scanning the charts, I tried to reason coldly, but what I foresaw was anything but reassuring, as my log for the day testifies:
I’m afraid my arrival is going to be tough, very tough; from September 19 on, and especially in October, the statistics indicate that waves up to ten feet and force-five winds will be the rule rather than the exception. What’s more, I’m going to have to navigate very carefully or else I risk not being able to put in at San Francisco. Which means I had better get going as fast as I can.
September 20, 1980. After my 72-day voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, from Cape Cod in Massachusetts to the entrance of the English Channel, this picture of me and my trusty Captain Cook was taken as I was pulling into the little port of Brest, in France. Jean Guichard/Sygma.
Preceding page: An aerial view of Sector, taken from a helicopter shortly before my arrival on American soil. Gilles Klein/Sipa Sport
All the cargo and equipment I took on board …
A pair of oars. 2. Clothing. 3. Dehydrated food (125 kilograms or about 275 pounds). 4. Tank of gas. 5, High-energy foods. 6. Captain Cook-brand canned food (25 kilograms or about 55 pounds). 7. Satellite position finder. S. Books. 9. Plastic bottles for drinking water. 10. Distress signals. 11. First-aid kit. 12, Sleeping bags. 13. Carneia and film (in watertight bags). 14. Watertight Sony video cameras. 15. Flashlights and flares. 16. Rowing seat. 17. Radar reflectors. 18. Desalination pumps (static and standby), 19, 20, 21, 22. The sea anchors, with their anchor ropes.
… plus everything already on board:
Six solar panels — Batteries — Two pairs of oars — Nautical maps and charts — Sextant — Radio — Telex — Hotplate — Kettle — Pot — Fishing gear — Two desalination pumps — Compass — Speed log — Ballast pump—Tools — Repair kit for hull — Three containers of wine (five liters eauh), Laurent de Bartilla.
The traditional method of plotting my position — the sextant and the chronometer — enabled me to economize on batteries used in plotting by satellite. Gerard d’Aboville/Sygma.
A look at my watertight cabin. To the right, the series of levers that enabled me to utilize seawater to shift ballast from one tank to the other In order to right Sector when it capsized. Behind the ballast levers, the watertight compartment housing the radio equipment. Dominique Aubert/Sygma.
Twelve hours a day, seventeen strokes a minute, was my routine whenever the weather allowed. Gerard d’Abavilte/Sygma.
If my basic chow was the packages of dehydrated food, from time to time I would spell them by opening one of Captain Cook’s delectable canned goods. Gerard d’Abovitle/Sygma.
When Sector capsized, it was not unlike being in an automobile accident: there were times when I emerged with my face a bloody mess and my body a mass of bruises. Gerard d’Aboville/Sygma.
Sector during one of the times it capsized, as I was pumping seawater into the lateral ballast tanks to try to right it. Gerard d’Abovilte/Sygma.
TOP: Sector and me on an unusually calm sea, as seen from the Russian freighter Pskor, which chanced upon me on October 29 and insisted I come on board — an invitation I politely declined, Sygma.
BOTTOM: Pskor as seen from Sector, with, in the foreground, the French flag flying from my antenna. Gerard d’Abovilte/Sygma.
OPPOSITE: Photo taken from the Miss Mary on November 20, Olivier de Kersauson, on board the Miss Mary, signaled to me to turn around and take a look: behind me was the American coastline. Domnique Aubert/Sygma.
November 21,1215 hours: I entered the port of Ilwaco, in the state of Washington. From this moment on my crossing would be no more than a memory. Vet, as recently as the day before, I was a boxer on the ropes, and the Pacific seemed intent on taking me down for the count. This is who the passengers on the Miss Mary encountered when they found me out on the high seas. TOP: Gilles Klein/Sipa Sport; BOTTOM: Dominique Aubert/Sygma.
The crowds fell silent; It was the magical moment. With Sector still claiming me, Cornelia, Ann, and Guillaume gave in and let their tears flow. Dominique Aubert/Sygma.
Cornélia and Ann looking on pensively as what was left of me was examined. I had thought I had probably lost seven to ten kilos (about fifteen to twenty-two pounds) in the course of the crossing, but in fact I had lost seventeen kilos, about thirty-seveu pounds. Gerard d’Aboville Archives.
TOP: The survivor. Gilles Klein/Sipa Sport
BOTTOM: Portrait of the Survivor as a Young Boy, At least there seems to be a continuity… . Gerard d’Aboville Archives/Sygma
5
With My Head in the Stars
Finally I ran smack into it. An invisible, moving rampart. The wall of east winds, head winds, diversionary and distracting winds, in the literal sense of the term.
For two weeks, from July 31 to August 14, I did nothing but zigzag back and forth across the ocean, advancing with enormous difficulty when the winds abated, glued to my oars for hours just to make a few miles’ progress. Then, during the night, with my sea anchors out, I would drift back that same precious distance under the relentless force of the east winds.
Two weeks of growing depression, in which I saw the summer, or what remained of it, inexorably disappear. Often I consciously decided not to check my position, so disgusted was I by the knowledge of what I would most certainly find — that I had lost many degrees of longitude that I had won so dearly only hours or days before.
To reach my goal, I had to create a mental universe wherein my forward progress was king, the only thing that mattered. It was a fragile universe at best: now that I was completely becalmed — two steps forward and two steps back, as it were — the temptation to give up was always with me, I spent hours, days, simply waiting for the wind to shift. To try to overcome my growing despair, I would frequently pull in the sea anchor, strap myself in the cockpit, and row till I dropped, all the while fully aware of how pointless the effort was. But anything that helped me keep alive the notion that I was making progress was good, anything that kept me from dwelling on the worst.
I had no news of my family and friends, whose absence I felt more strongly with every passing day. I had the strange impression of being a speleologist, descending deeper and deeper into the darkness, into the night. During my first several days out I had clung to the memories of my colleagues who had accompanied me to Japan, imagining in exquisite detail everything they might be doing. In my mind I had gone back to France with Bruno and, since I knew what his plans and itinerary were, I went with him to Brittany where I knew he had to pick up his car, then accompanied him as he drove down to southern France. Christopher “served” me for a little longer, since I knew he was staying on in Japan for a week and then joining a mutual friend as navigator on his sailboat. But as time went on, I began to lose them. Solitude closed in around me, real solitude, the kind that disconnects you from the rest of the world.
I’m an old hand at being alone. My experience rowing across the Atlantic had taught me that, when it comes to solitude, the best thing is to dive right in, immerse yourself in it, rather than try to resist it. But at this point things were at a very low ebb. So, any time I took a break I slipped into the cockpit to take a quick look at my ammeter and check the output of my solar panels that were charging my radio batteries. I was obsessed — although I refused to admit it to myself — with the desire for human contact, however superficial, a need so overpowering that it frightened me. My little pill of ephemeral happiness. I desperately needed those terribly brief radio contacts, which broke off far too soon, leaving me each time plunged even deeper in my solitude.
Two weeks after leaving Choshi, I picked up some American voices on my radio. I couldn’t believe it! Since then no more contacts. Had it been some quirk of the nocturnal air waves? In any case, just hearing the language of the country of my arrival warmed my heart, Even though I knew in my heart of hearts how far, far off it still
was… .
The “mystery” was solved on the day when, tuning in to the same frequency, I heard a man saying he planned to spend the weekend in Manila. So my ham radio operator was based in the Philippines. Which immediately gave me a bright idea. Two of my brothers were living there at the time. All I had to do was make contact with this American operator, convince him to telephone one of my brothers and set up a radio appointment with him. That way, I figured, I could perhaps make contact, through him, with my family in France.
“Break’” “Break!”
After a bit of static, the American homed in on my frequency. He must have been a bit taken aback to hear me say, “This is Sector, rowboat Sector. I’m rowing across the Pacific. You’re my first contact in nine days. I wonder if you could telephone my brother?”
I was dying to exchange a few words with Cornelia, to find out how she was and how the children were doing during their summer vacation. Guillaume, I knew, was taking sailing lessons, and I wanted an update on his progress. I also wanted to talk with Christopher, to give him an update. But as it turned out it would be another several weeks before I got through via radio. For that, I had to hook up with a maritime station that would relay the radio call to a telephone network. So far, I hadn’t been able to effect that.
All of this brought me back to the telex, which was still giving me fits. Every time I raised the antenna above the cockpit it seemed to suffer from some slight twist or bend inflicted on it. The connection, which was already fragile, seemed to get worse day by day, no matter how carefully I handled it, until one day it snapped altogether. I improvised a makeshift substitute, but to no avail. The machine had made up its mind once and for all that it was not going to work, even if I treated it like the Holy Sacrament. With that machine, I went from one disillusionment to another.
Then one evening there appeared on its little screen the following: MESSAGE RECEIVED. Feverishly, I searched the computer’s memory bank. Nothing. And then on the screen there flashed: MESSAGE RECEIVED.
I felt like tossing the damned thing overboard.
“TM6 ABO, TM6 ABO, this is FR8CR calling. Come in TM6 ABO “
Eddy, a ham radio operator out of Noumea, had just entered my little world. On a regular basis — and for stretches, every day — he brought me both comfort and valuable weather information. FK8CR, Eddy’s call sign, was a very sophisticated setup. He had a fax that received from the satellites the full weather report on the Pacific, which he would pass on to me. Till the end of my trip, Eddy remained a staunch and faithful friend, often sacrificing his weekends to keep me up to date on the movement of storms and cyclones, as well as passing on messages from friends.
But right now I really needed help. I had cut back my rations to one meal a day. Given all my “lost days,” days with little or no progress, I knew there was a growing risk that I would run out of food. Increasingly, I was assailed by doubts. The successful outcome of the crossing seemed to me less and less certain.
The minute the vice that held me in its grip slackened a bit and I saw an opening, I took up my oars and rowed steadily, hoping to break the vicious cycle of row and drift. But again the winds would rise, often to gale fury, and drive me back into the cabin for safety, with sea anchors out to mitigate the damage. And there I would huddle like some caged beast as the waves hammered me and the gale winds whistled, waiting for the boat to capsize.
In situations such as that, a living hell, there is no way you can force your mind to take refuge in other thoughts because it, too, is a prisoner of the unpredictable, convulsive movements of the boat and can focus on nothing else.
I thought of the First World War, of the soldiers burrowed in their trenches, who could tell simply by the whine of the shell what caliber it was. And there I was, hunkered down in my cabin, listening for the roar of the waves, trying to guess which one it would be that would capsize the boat. There were times when this went on for a ten-hour stretch.
As if by chance, at this juncture my first physical problems surfaced. One morning when I woke up, I felt a stabbing pain behind my left shoulder, in a spot where it was of course impossible for me to rub in any salve. But sometimes misfortune has its virtues. The weather was so bad it forced me to keep the sea anchors out and take the day off. I kept to my cabin all day and used the time to clean and disinfect every little cut and bruise I had — an indispensable precaution at sea where the slightest scratch or abrasion can quickly get infected. At last I had a moment to take care of myself physically. But from a morale viewpoint, there was no medicine on board to heal me.
August 10
Believe it or not, a telex arrived from Cornelia. The machine I had given up on actually funtioned. It was my first news from her since my departure, and I was delighted to get it. But it also left me terribly frustrated. She hadn’t given me enough details. She told me that she and the children had gone out to dinner at a restaurant. But what restaurant? Where? Had she driven there? By what route? I wanted the name of the restaurant, what table they had, what the menu was. I was starved for details. Here I lacked everything. Everything that had a smell, a color, a special flavor. Did she have any idea how frustrating it was to be deprived of these tiny, simple parts of life? Could she have any notion of how badly I needed to feel them, touch them, breathe them?
August 11
During the night, tremendous battering by the waves, A low pressure system must have passed through directly above me. The wind suddenly shifted 180 degrees; the sea was raging.
I put out two sea anchors from the bow, which did not prevent Sector from being knocked about like a cork. Inside my watertight cabin I had the feeling, through the “skin” of the hull, that I was being beaten, soundly thrashed, throughout the night.
But the following morning I awoke to a pleasant surprise, A northwest wind had dissipated the nightmare. I pulled myself out of the cabin, my arms and legs stiff and numb. My eyes were wide with disbelief: could the winds really have shifted in my favor?
The bad news was that though the wind was now in the right direction, it was still strong, and the sea was still raging. The idea of leaving my dry lair and getting soaked in the cockpit did not exactly delight me. Yet doing nothing was even worse. I started by pulling in the sea anchors, letting Sector run with the wind, and proceeded to tidy up both the boat and myself, as if it were Sunday morning on a pleasure craft. A dab of grease on any point where rust had begun to appear, then a shave, a bit of fresh water on my face, my hair combed… . Feeling much better, I climbed into the cockpit, took up the oars, and rowed for the next nine hours straight, directly northeast.
August 14
Clear blue sky, such as I had very rarely seen since my departure. Yet the barometer was falling rapidly. Did that mean I was finally getting the low pressure system that had been predicted? I realized I had just regained the position I had reached back on July 31. Two weeks of no progress!
Where were those little squeaking sounds coming from? From the computer? My quartz watch? I was in the cabin having lunch when I first heard the strange, high-pitched noises. I checked the computer, listened to my watch, checked all the equipment — nothing out of the ordinary. Looking further, I discovered that a school of dolphins, probably a hundred or so, were frolicking not far off, and as they swam and dove their high-pitched cries were reverberating underwater and bouncing off my hull.
* * *
My boils were not causing me too much trouble. In fact, to date I had not had much to complain about as far as my health was concerned. I had kept in fairly close radio contact with Dr. Ghauve, whose task it was to advise me on any health problems I encountered. But I knew myself well enough to know that the poor man would have had a serious problem fulfilling his role of medical guardian angel, because when I do have a health problem of any sort, I prefer not to mention it, or if I do, it will be only in passing. Even when, later on in the crossing, I would break two ribs and a finger, I could see no point in dwelling on it. Of course, it was pa
inful, but I also knew it was not life-threatening, that it was something I could cope with. As long as I was able to keep on rowing, nothing else mattered to me. To make lengthy notations in my log or over the radio about my health would only have worried my family and friends unnecessarily and also have provided me with ready excuses for giving up if my mind began to crack or my resolve began to weaken.
August 17
Two weeks behind in my game plan. I had to increase my daily rowing schedule.
Under normal conditions, that is, when the weather was not bad enough to keep me from rowing, my day began at first light. Up at 0600. I gulp down my breakfast, a high-energy concoction of dried fruit and cereal washed down with a cup of hot chocolate or coffee. I take a quick look outside. At dawn or dusk the color of the sky can give me a pretty good idea what to expect over the next few hours. A technicolor dawn is a bad sign; on the other hand, a brilliant sundown bodes well.
After heating up the coffee, I set it down in the cockpit. This is a none too subtle way of forcing myself to leave the relative comfort of the cabin, since I have a tendency to go where the coffee is… . “Here in the cockpit,” I keep telling myself, “is where the action is.” And so my day begins.
I row from 0630 to 0930 without pause. Then I take a break to have a cup of coffee or a bowl of hot soup, and it’s back to the grind for another couple of hours, roughly till noon. I take a midday break of an hour and a half or two hours — in good French fashion — for lunch, to check my position with sextant and charts, and, upon occasion, to smoke a small cigar. From 1400 to 1600 hours, back to the cockpit and another two hours’ steady rowing. A further short break, then a third stint at the oars till 2000. Whenever I’m forced to put out the sea anchors and stay inside — whether for a few hours or in some cases for several days in a row — I make up for it by extending those “normal” hours and rowing late into the night.
Alone Page 8