“What noise, mate?” Justin groggily replied as he took out one of his earplugs. “I can’t hear any tapping.”
“That one,” I insisted. Then a couple of seconds later: “There it goes again.”
“Nah, mate, can’t hear a thing. Just try and get some rest, Cas,” he said sympathetically.
If the tapping hadn’t driven me insane, Justin’s reaction did. How could he not hear it? It wasn’t like he was at the far end of the QEII.
Although the sounds in the cabin weren’t annoying Jonesy too much, internally he was struggling. To me, he seemed upbeat, but he later confessed that at times he really battled to maintain a positive façade. Considering how naturally emotional Justin was, this must have been so hard for him. If he hadn’t shown this strength, though, Lot 41 would have been a sombre site.
I finally got some sleep, and as we woke up we knew that today we’d be stuck – once again – in the cabin. Without much debate, we decided to halve our rations on days we didn’t paddle, in case we were out here for a little longer than expected. Besides, when we were holed up in the cabin we found it very difficult to consume 6000 calories worth of food – the equivalent of 21 pieces of KFC!
As Justin passed me half a protein bar later that morning, I realised the lights on the Comar Unit weren’t flashing. With the Comar being a crucial defence against us being run over at sea, this was a bit of a worry – we were now almost invisible to passing ships.
We’d planned our route across the Tasman to avoid the major shipping channels, and as it turned out we only saw two container ships on our whole expedition. With our Comar out, we had to convince ourselves that due to our size and the fact that we weren’t near any major shipping lanes, the risk of being bumped by a larger vessel was minute.
The traffic on the Tasman is nothing compared to, say, the Atlantic Ocean: we’d have been much more concerned if we’d been up there. Due to the minimal amount of traffic we were experiencing, we didn’t instigate a “watch system” as ships at sea normally do. In all the offshore passages we’d done, there’d always been at least one person up on deck at all times to keep an eye on other vessels at sea.
DAY 25
Our bucking colt made sure we didn’t get much sleep overnight. The wind in the morning had risen to above 55 kilometres per hour, accompanied by a 7-metre swell coming from the south-southeast. When out away from the coast, the size and direction of the sea is pretty much dictated by the wind. As it travels thousands of kilometres over the water, the wind’s friction on the ocean surface causes the unpredictable sea state to form. That caused Lot 41 to lurch around like a drunken brawler, taking heavy hits but refusing to go down.
Out of sheer frustration with the weather, we gave Roger another call to get his thoughts. We knew what the answer was going to be, but just wanted to hear it from him: he was the gatekeeper to the weather. Reiterating our previous conversation, he told us these winds were being generated by a tropical cyclone north of Fiji. Always searching for the positive in a situation, the TC was heading east, so it posed a minimal threat. Again, at least there was a meagre gain to come out of a thoroughly depressing phone call.
DAY 26
VIDEO DIARY, DAY 26 – JAMES
“Who screwed up? Did we put too much faith in Roger? Did we not do enough research ourselves? Did we not design the kayak well enough? These headwinds are killing us. Normally Jonesy is the down one; the weaker one. Why am I the weaker one? I hate this seasickness.”
Our third day stuck in the cabin. The wind continued to hammer us from the east, and to add salt to the wound – excuse the pun – we were now drifting back to Australia. We couldn’t believe it – at this rate, we’d be floating into Sydney Harbour for Christmas. The weather began to abate in the late afternoon, but not enough to allow us to get in the pits and make up lost ground. By now, our heads were about to explode from lying on our backs for 60 hours plus. We managed to pump water for four hours, which was about the only benefit that came out of the day.
DAY 27
VIDEO DIARY, DAY 27 – JAMES
“Fourth f***ing day of shit locked up in the cabin. We’ve now lost close to half a degree [50 kilometres]. I’m getting over this pretty quickly. Every little thing is starting to niggle now. Jonesy chewing loudly…every little thing. It’s now been 27 days – 27 days of feeling like crap is not fun. At least Jonesy is staying positive.”
It was the fourth day now – we had to get out of the cabin. Even if that meant going nowhere (which we ended up doing!). By 11am, we began paddling into a cold 25-kilometre-per-hour breeze and adverse current coming from the east-southeast. The sky was covered in a gloomy dark shroud which reflected how we were feeling about the whole situation.
We quickly realised that the paddle strokes were pretty futile. We would have made more progress on the treadmill at the local gym. We ended up going around in circles for an hour and a half before our “workout” was complete.
Back in the cabin, we realised that we’d lost 42 kilometres northwest over the previous four days of being cabin-bound. With frayed nerves, we sat staring at the current overlay Pat had sent through in the evening sked – it was a rude awakening. We were being sucked into a giant anti-clockwise whirlpool. Our immediate reaction, due to our utter frustration and disgust, was to take it out on one another. It was as though we held each other responsible. With neither of us able to storm out of the room to blow off some steam, the rest of the evening was tense.
DAY 28
Conditions finally calmed to 10–15 kilometres per hour from the east. Although progress was painfully slow as we were pushing current, the sun was out, it was such a relief to be paddling again, and we immersed ourselves in great conversation.
We made a pact that on our first dinner date back home with a girl, we had to disguise a three-course meal comprising only the cruddy rations we had on board Lot 41. We wondered how much our regal charm and class – as well as all the trimmings of a romantic candlelit dinner – could allow us to get away with in terms of serving up the crappiest meal our date had probably ever been subjected to. Admittedly, this is the kind of prank an eight year old might find slightly immature, but it did keep us amused at the time.
Running through the sked with Pat at 8pm, he told us that the Andrew McAuley inquest had started. We’d been dealing with Andrew’s death every day since his disappearance: there hadn’t been one day we’d been out paddling when we hadn’t thought of how much he’d suffered in attempting to fulfil his Tasman dream.
My feelings towards Andrew had evolved torturously over the past five years. Initially we had deity-like respect for what he’d achieved and what he stood for. Towards the end of 2006, this had given way to anger and feeling betrayed, and on his fateful voyage, all the negative energy evolved into understanding and respect.
With its highs and lows, our experience with Andrew had taught me more about myself than any other single event in my life. Out here, our admiration for the suffering he’d been subjected to led to a deep admiration. We felt connected with him, and on some days we thought we could feel his presence urging us on, as if he too had let the negative energy dissipate. The three of us had shared something special that no-one else in the world could ever relate to – being in the middle of the Tasman Sea in a kayak.
DAY 29
VIDEO DIARY, DAY 29 – JUSTIN
“I’m frustrated as hell. While Cas was desaling, I managed to paddle 400 metres in 40 minutes. A toddler could walk across the Tasman faster than that. I guess we need to look at the positives…at least I’ll lose some weight and get skinnier. Maybe, just maybe, I might be able to see my abs for the first time in my life.”
We woke early to try and fight our way out of this current. A gentle 10-kilometre-per-hour wind was coming from the east, blowing rain on just the right angle to hit our faces. We were baffled us as to why our progress was so slow. I struggled through those first few hours because of acute pain that was darting up my spine fr
om my lower back – after a couple of Nurofen started to take effect, though, the paddling became more pleasant.
I began to get worried that my core muscles weren’t supporting my upper body. The core is your “transmission mechanism” linking the strength of your lower body – where your stroke begins – to the arms. Most people are surprised to hear that your legs actually receive quite a decent workout when paddling. Often, after a tough session on the water when you’ve been driving hard, your legs are more sore than your upper body. Losing the driving power from the lower body results in each paddle stroke becoming significantly less effective.
I could tell from Jonesy’s lack of conversation that he was battling with his own world of pain. On days when steering was difficult, his moods generally took a turn for the worse. There are times on an expedition when you’re better off not to mention the pain or difficulty you’re going through, and just get on with it. Reflecting back on the time we left mainland Australia on our journey across Bass Strait, as we paddled out of Refuge Cove on the southern tip of Victoria we were incredibly intimidated by the weather and the prospect of being so far away from land we wouldn’t be able to see it. If we’d discussed the situation as we pushed off the sand after we’d made our decision to leave, I think we would have paddled straight back to the refuge of the cove. However, this felt like one of those moments where it’d be better to have a chat about it.
“What’s doing, mate?” I enquired, as tactfully as I could.
“I’m bloody tired, mate. I’m really not sleeping well at the moment,” he said, sounding frustrated.
“How come? Have I been tossing at night?”
“Nah, mate, you’ve been fine. I’m not sure what it is.”
Our pathetic progress, our difficulty sleeping, and the dreary weather were beginning to gnaw at our morale. We just couldn’t figure out why we were going so slowly. When you’re down, it seems everything is against you. My back was sore and I was paying more attention than normal to the chafe on my scrotum and bum. Every hour I’d lather Sudocrem on my backside, which provided temporary relief from the discomfort. But as the rain continued to fall, it caused salt water to trickle down my back, aggravating the chafe. In a 26-minute period, Justin counted that I tried to readjust my nuts 11 times.
To keep ourselves entertained, we talked about the perfect dinner date. Jonesy talked for half an hour about how he’d decorate his verandah with cushions and candles, and described in detail the 10 courses that were to follow. I joked that after the date she’d probably run to McDonald’s to fill up, as the courses were so small – two mussels for entrée, one prawn for main and a strawberry for dessert! In spite of the chafing and the rain and everything else, and the fact that Jonesy himself would have vacuumed up such a tiny meal in less than 12 seconds, it was a funny conversation that picked up our morale.
DAY 30
VIDEO DIARY, DAY 30 – JAMES
“Six hours of brutal useless paddling, we find ourselves absolutely no closer to New Zealand…tired, demoralised and shagged. Our balance is starting to go – legs have lost a lot of strength. We just can’t get out of this thing. I’m getting over this. You can’t beat the sea – it’s the boss. You just can’t fight it…it’s too powerful.”
We paddled for six hours that day into both wind and rain and travelled 4.12 kilometres. At midday, we chucked out the para-anchor in defeat. Yet again, we drifted back to the 164 degree longitude. This “landmark” was turning into our holy grail. Like mercury, we’d grab at it, think we had it, and find it slipping out of our fingers.
Most of our food packs had been stored in the cabin, but we also had 40 packs (20 days’ worth) in the bow. Supplies were starting to get low, so we moved some packs out of the bow and into the cabin, then jumped in the back. (As well as keeping us well equipped, shifting them also ensured that Lot 41 was balanced in the water, even though we’d gone through 80 kilograms of food.)
As Jonesy pumped some water, I was just trying to get some sleep when – bam – a rogue wave smashed us on the beam, causing our Toughbook – which was designed to be water resistant, drop-proof, shake-proof, you-name-it-proof – to come flying out of its hidy hole and smack me on the head. Brilliant. Having an electronic brick pounding me on the skull, with a decent bump on the ol’ noggin for a week to prove it, was a fitting conclusion to a horrible day.
DAY 31
“Slept like shit last night,” I wrote in my diary. Between us we’d had an uncomfortable one hour’s sleep. The fatigue was now starting to pierce past our gaunt, retracted eyes, through every muscle fibre and into our bones, which were beginning to ache. This deep-rooted exhaustion was taking us to places in our heads that we’d never been before. Sure, we’d been tired in the past – like in the three-day food and sleep deprivation exercise we’d done with the army. But no training or expedition had sucked the energy out of the marrow of our bones.
We were running on empty: life was becoming a matter of survival and fighting. By ourselves, I think either of us would have given up there and then on the morning of day 31. All we had was each other – and that was what we desperately clung to.
Waking in the morning, the first thing I’d routinely do was to switch on the GPS and wait for it to “acquire” (in other words, to locate) three satellites to give us a fix on our position. At the same time, I’d examine the direction the needle of the compass in the rear pit was pointing. Typically it was pointing west – that meant the prevailing conditions were coming from where we wanted to go. Not good. Confirming my suspicion, the GPS revealed that we’d drifted 20 kilometres northwest during the night. Definitely not good.
The situation was useless. Justin looked more-than-usually exhausted – he was constantly cross-eyed, which was somewhat disturbing.
We were trapped in this giant anti-clockwise current pulling us back towards Australia – we’d been going around in circles for 10 days. Staring at the ceiling of Lot 41 I searched for answers and my mind entered an exhausted trance. I could sense Jonesy’s fighting energy beginning to dwindle. We had to do something or this would be the end of our bid to cross the Tasman. A quote from the movie Tin Cup echoed in my head: “When a defining moment comes along, you define the moment…or the moment defines you.”
This was one of those moments. A lightbulb weakly flickered on and off in my hazy brain: “If we can’t fight it, let’s go with it. Let’s use the wind and the current to break free of this god-awful whirlpool.”
To this day I’m not sure whether this desperate thought was just a matter of staying sane and doing something that felt constructive, or whether it was a carefully planned out manoeuvre. Either way, paddling backwards at a reasonable rate seemed preferable to aimlessly drifting around in circles.
I discussed with Jonesy the concept of paddling back west towards Australia to break free of the current. We ran over the pros and cons, noting that we were extremely fatigued and therefore could not know how rational our reasoning was.
After we both decided it was viable, we rang Pat to talk him through our strategy – we knew we needed his advice on the strength of our reasoning. He discussed it with Roger and half an hour later we began paddling towards the afternoon sun with a following sea. How bizarre it was to see the compass needle pointing west and to paddle into the fading light. Even with a following sea, though, we were slightly concerned about the speed of our progress. What was slowing us down now?
That evening I had my weekly phone call with the family, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk with them. Although we’d now decided on a strategy, we were far from being merrily on our way again, and every bit of positive encouragement my family sent us, I found hard to absorb. Our bodies were beginning to burn from our joint flame, and nothing else. Although it was understandable for them to say “just keep going” or “don’t worry about it, the wind will change soon”, it seemed as if no amount of external encouragement could pick our morale up – our families and friends sometimes felt too far abst
racted from the realities of life on the Tasman.
15
Rain, More Rain, and A Pink Scrubbing Brush
DAY 32
I couldn’t escape the stench. The sickening reek of urine. At some stage over the past couple of days, one of us had pissed all over my pillow and the stench now blanketed it. Tossing around from side to side, I tried to escape the smell by wrapping a thermal top round my head. It provided momentary relief, but the smell returned. To complete the ugly picture, Lot 41 was starting to buck quite violently.
“Not again,” I kept whispering to myself. I played my hypnotherapy tapes for hours, trying to escape into a trance. But my mind was fried. I couldn’t evade the reality of the discomfort – it was engulfing me.
“I hate this shit,” I yelled out, and at that moment I lost my mind – I began punching the wall of Lot 41. I swore and swore and – thinking about the gut-wrenching seasickness, and us going around in circles for days on end, getting further away from our destination by the hour; not to mention the piss-stained pillow – I suddenly wanted nothing more than for us to sink and for the whole ordeal to be over. I was defeated.
Jonesy seemed really worried. He pleaded with me to stop my ranting, concerned that I was going to break my hand.
I screamed, “I want to break it – then I can get off this bloody kayak.”
Jonesy was desperate and really thought he might have to physically restrain me if I got too out of control. He was terrified that I might do something irrational and stupid like jumping into the ocean. I never thought of that as an option, but I did imagine other ways of aborting the mission. I fantasised about cutting one of my fingers off, and on a few occasions I pleaded to God for a debilitating illness to hit me, so I had an excuse to get rescued or die. I just wanted – needed – to be back on land.
Crossing the Ditch Page 18