Finally that evening, we received a forecast bringing some westerlies. Suckers for punishment that we were, Pat and Roger had dangled the westerly carrot in front of us on a few occasions, then stripped us of the anticipated pleasure a day or two later. Once again, we were excited by the prospect of having some prevailing conditions for a change. We didn’t let our previous experiences get us down.
DAY 40
Preceding the westerlies, we were expecting a front bringing winds stronger than we’d experienced to date – 75 kilometres per hour; about the speed Lance Armstrong might reach hurtling down the Pyrenees. To prepare, the first thing we did on the morning of day 40 was dig out the series drogue – the heavy-weather anchor – from under the floor in the cabin, and carry out a couple of practice deployment and retrievals of this crucial piece of storm management gear.
Essentially, the purpose of all this gear in heavy weather is to keep the vessel perpendicular to the oncoming waves. This gives the boat a much better chance of riding through the storm without rolling down the face of waves. We deployed the drogue, which we only used in the severest conditions – fortunately, we only had to use it on three occasions – from the stern. It was a 50-metre line with a series of 40 cones along the length of the main line that were 150 millimetres in diameter. They had the effect of cupping a small portion of water and preventing the kayak from careering down the face of big waves. We soon learnt that this piece of gear would achieve its purpose incredibly well.
We spent most of the morning talking about binge drinking and the role it plays in society. I was taking the angle of the “good angel” and Justin was taking the “because it’s fun” approach. Both of us partied quite hard in our first couple of years at uni, as most people do. We had a bit of a reputation for getting totally loose – my nickname when I was hitting the piss was Cassaaaa and Jonesy’s was Random Man. I guess we were driven by insecurity about who we were, trying to shed our inhibitions in a social environment, as well as the whole fun of getting wild.
It seemed as if substance abuse was often a reflection of other issues people were having to deal with. I saw it all the time when I was working as an accountant. We spent 60 hours a week doing something we “had to”, and come Friday night, the way so many of us would escape reality was to drink premium lagers on the company account. For me, the novelty had worn off pretty quickly and I’d escape at the end of the working week to the Blue Mountains.
Out on the water, Jonesy and I also talked about the similarity of the bond we felt with a fellow adventurer after, say, a challenging bushwalk, and the camaraderie of a huge night on the turps with your mates. You’ve probably heard it before that if life is a wild ride and you’re having heaps of fun sober, where’s the need to get pissed to magnify the experience? I don’t think this had really struck me, though, until I started climbing with Dunc. He’d partied pretty hard when he was in his mid-teens, and he always reminded me that a day out climbing was infinitely more rewarding than being blotto.
As we slogged east for 11 hours that day, we passed the 800-kilometres-to-go mark, and although we only made 33 kilometres into the 25-kilometre-per-hour nor’easterly, our morale stayed positive all afternoon. With the forecast for winds up to 55 kilometres per hour from the east, we hadn’t really been expecting a full day’s paddle, but the front must have been delayed, so we pounced on the opportunity to scrounge a couple more miles.
It was quite tough, though. My lower back was beginning to be really painful and I’d had to take two Nurofen for the previous five days. Both sides of Jonesy’s torso were cut and bleeding. Despite the padding, the constant paddling motion had caused the cockpit rim to saw into his flesh. We also realised that it had become much colder – most days we were now paddling in our cags.
Unfortunately, for dinner we ate two curries – our most-dreaded dehydrated meals. Earlier in the journey, we would have cheated the random-pluck system and swapped them for something a little more appealing for the palate, but now our ravenous hunger ensured we were licking the bags and trying to find a few more grains of hidden rice by the end of the meal.
DAY 41
Chaos. Through the night the storm gathered force and by morning we were being pummelled by 70–75 kilometres-per-hour winds from the north. We’d only managed one hour’s sleep. We had the para-anchor deployed, knowing that at some stage during the day we’d have to swap to the series drogue. As the wave size grew through the morning, we started being pulled through the face of these mountainous walls of water. By lunchtime the waves were the size of a three-storey building. The ferocity of the wind continued to grow and we knew one of us had to get out of the cabin, pull the para-anchor in and deploy the drogue.
The massive swell was playing all sorts of nasty games with my inner-ear and I was feeling really queasy. Taking short sharp breaths, beads of sweat were forming on my face. My tanned-brown face was now green and I was choking down chunks of vomit that were about to burst from my mouth. Futilely, I tried to meditate.
The decision to exit the cabin was made for us in an instant. Completely submersed, we got pulled through the face of a particularly steep wave, and as we were spat out its back, we were greeted by that haunting screech of the bridle being caught again. F***.
Our hopes of it untangling itself were quickly dashed – we couldn’t rely on luck out here – and Jonesy prepared himself to head outside. As he crawled over me, naked, there were no penis jokes this time – this was serious. He exited the cabin door, with waves constantly washing over the pits, and when he removed the cockpit cover to give himself room to pull in the para-anchor, the rear pit filled instantly with water. The broken bilge pump meant it was going to stay that way.
As soon as he began the para-anchor retrieval, Lot 41 broached side-on. If one of these mountains of water broke on the kayak, we’d tumble down its face – with Justin outside. This was incredibly dangerous.
As the para-anchor neared the kayak, its lines tangled in the rudder and, without hesitating, Jonesy shouted above the wind, “Mate, I’m going in.”
“Be safe, man,” I forced out, trying to contain the vomit.
Jonesy put the goggles on, tied himself to the safety lines and slid into the tumultuous ocean. With the frothing seas slamming into Lot 41, he thought he’d entered hell. He struggled to the stern of the kayak and, even though he was on the leeward side, was being smacked against the hull as the waves crashed in. Initially, he was going to untangle the mess as fast as possible, but for some reason – and it possibly saved his life – he instinctively bobbed next to the kayak for a minute, familiarising himself with the wave patterns and the effect they were having on the kayak. Horrified, he stared at the rudder chopping up and down like a treelopper’s axe. The whole 1.2-metre rudder was going from completely airborne to crashing through the water in seconds. Anyone caught underneath it would be killed with one blow.
Memorising the timing, J made a dash for the rudder, desperately untangled the bridle and swam frantically back to the rear cockpit, with waves engulfing him and Lot 41. He later described that moment as the most terrifying of his life. When dunking his head under the water’s frothing surface, he couldn’t help realise the stark contrast of the serenity lying below – Bruce and Larry were just cruising, blissfully unaware of the violent conditions above.
Coughing up litres of salt water, he jumped in the cockpit and finished retrieving the para-anchor. I opened the cabin door and began filming the unfolding drama, spurring him on with as much positive encouragement as I could muster. The para-anchor was now in and it was time to deploy the series drogue.
Justin was shaking terribly and his eyes were fixed open with fear. He bumbled with the D-clamp to attach the drogue for what seemed an eternity – his fingers had gone numb from the cold. Wave after wave crashed on top of him, threatening to tear him out of the kayak at any moment.
Just as he’d tied the drogue on, a rogue wave smashed us from the front quarter, flooding hundreds of
litres of water into the cabin.
“Oh, f***,” we both yelled as Jonesy slammed the door closed. Our sleeping bags were soaked and water was sloshing everywhere. As Justin deployed the drogue, I stuffed my head into the various compartments in the cabin and began the unenviable task of bilging the water manually out of each one. I couldn’t believe our stupidity – having the cabin door open in these conditions. It was errors like this that would get us killed out on the Tasman. Until now, we’d been so sharp in not allowing issues like this to occur. We were disgusted at our performance. “Worst bit of seamanship this trip,” I wrote in my diary, although maybe I summed it up better in the video diary: “We’re f***ing idiots.”
Justin was outside for another 20 minutes as I vigorously tried to drain all of the water. The cabin was our safe haven – it was where we could hide to escape being wet and scared. Lady Tasman had now stepped over the line and her entry into our cabin was rude and unwelcomed. It was as though we’d been violated – like having our house broken into. As Jonesy re-entered the cabin, we were pissed that all our personal belongings had been soaked. It’d take two days for our sleeping bags and our cabin thermals to dry. Water even sloshed around in the power distribution box, which had deliberately been mounted high on the cabin wall.
Fortunately, the series drogue made the rollercoaster much more comfortable than the battering we’d been taking with the anchor deployed. As we lay down in the late afternoon, it was the first opportunity we’d had to mull over the events of the previous few hours. I hadn’t realised how close Jonesy was to being smashed to pieces by the rudder. It sounded incredibly full on. We tossed and turned all afternoon while riding the largest swell either of us had ever encountered. Prior to leaving Australia, we’d talked to numerous crusty sailors who tried to paint a picture of what it was like to weather a mid-Tasman blow. But words can’t describe the chaos.
Just as we were going to sleep, Justin called his family – which really got under my skin. We’d been sitting listening to our iPods for hours; then when it was time to sleep, he decided to get on the phone. When he finished the call, I blurted out untactfully, “That was a bit selfish, mate, you could’ve made the call when we were both awake.”
He’d just been through one of the most traumatic moments of his life and, understandably, he needed some comfort. I should have been more in tune with his needs, but a character trait I’ve always had is to say exactly what I’m feeling. Justin, on the other hand, is much more tolerant, and when there’s something to be said, he delivers his message quite subtly. Throughout the voyage we had numerous debates about whether we should just say it or be tolerant and hold it in. The conclusion was that I should be more careful of my wording and Justin needed to speak up more often if there was something I was doing that was bugging him.
DAY 42
By now we were more fatigued than we’d ever thought possible, we’d had a few encounters over the past week in which we were fearful for our lives, and our bodies had wasted considerably. Despite all this, Jonesy made a comment on the video diary about the joy we experienced getting out of the cabin and doing some exercise. We were in the pits again and our goal seemed to be drawing closer.
During the storm of the previous day, the baby wipes we used for wiping the zinc off our face – which were stored in the pouch on the outside of the cabin door – had been ripped out and thrown into the Tasman. To our amazement, after an hour of paddling, we saw something bobbing right in front of our bow. It was the baby wipes! What are the chances of losing something overboard some 12 hours earlier in the middle of a raging sea, and coming across it again?
17
Shark Bait
Christmas in the Castrission house has always been a particularly special time. Throughout the year we all seem so busy, but it’s one occasion we always get together and really enjoy each other’s company. Out on the Tasman, we felt alone. There were no presents this year – we hadn’t brought any for each other (we’d optimistically assumed we’d be sitting in the family dining room on the day).
DAY 43
Christmas Day – ho ho. The fatigue levels had now ventured past the stage where our eyes wanted to shut, to the level that we plainly felt sick – quite similar to being badly hungover, really.
I had to wake through the night numerous times to see whether the westerlies had blown in. We wanted to maximise our drift by using these favourable winds as much as possible. As soon as they arrived, the para-anchor stayed in its bag till the much-loved westerlies left us. Unfortunately, a combination of waking every hour and the increasingly bumpy sea state resulted in me not getting back to sleep from 2.30am onwards – which was so frustrating.
Moving out into the cockpits that morning, I took note that the combination of the fatigue and the time bunkered up in the cabin had rendered my bowels useless – they hadn’t moved for three days. It really felt like my body was beginning to shut down. Every now and then the stomach would rumble and I’d try and push something out, but nothing was happening. I knew a few days in the pits would help make me regular again.
Paddling along in the rain, with the seas building, I listened to Christmas carols. Slowly, I began to weep. I thought of my family back home, unwrapping their presents, with our family dog Max playing with the wrapping paper. I then imagined them having a nice big lunch and the masses of food that would be chucked away at the end of the day – pure decadence. As tears trickled down my face, they got lost in the rainwater.
The closest we’d got to a Christmas present was a dice-size piece of Christmas cake made by Justin’s sister, Louisa. She’d wrapped the cake in foil and had drawn various symbols on the outside – Christmas trees, holly, bells. It made me think of home. We’d rationed our dehydrated meals over the past week to ensure we could both have a roast chicken meal with added mince at dinner. Throughout the day we salivated over the thought of being tucked up in the cabin, enjoying these special rations.
As we kept paddling, we began to sing Christmas carols. These songs were good fun, taking our minds off the fatigue, but the paddling that afternoon was nothing short of wild – 55–60-kilometre-per-hour winds from the southwest with massive swells rolling in. Waves broke all around and on top of us. It was a Christmas Day neither of us will ever forget. During the evening we drifted past the devil’s number – 666 kilometres to go. It spooked me but not Justin, who was much more sensible; not allowing superstition to create negative energy on the kayak. We made 107 kilometres fast.
DAY 44
Justin has never been a morning person. But these first five minutes of the day were proving harder and harder for him. He’d often set his alarm up to 10 minutes before our official get-up time, just so he could slowly get the cogs moving when the proper alarm went off.
The prevailing swell and wind kindly kicked us 40 kilometres eastward during the night. Take away the fatigue and we would have been laughing, but unfortunately, the rough seas had made sure we couldn’t sleep. That now made three virtually sleepless nights in a row.
Waking in the morning to see the bow pointing east was a welcome change. It was critical that we pounced on these favourable conditions, but our bodies were pleading otherwise. We were exhausted beyond reason, with constant throbbing from the pain that severe fatigue brings. I wanted to lie in the cabin and just close my eyes, and if I’d been by myself, I probably would have. Mustering all the energy we could find, we lumbered out and made our way into the pits.
Boxing Day brought the most terrifying yet exhilarating paddling of our lives. There was a 6–7-metre swell rumbling from the southwest, and each time we crested one of these giants it felt like staring down from a two-storey building. Normally, in these conditions, we’d ride them out in the cabin, but after a month and a half at the reins of Lot 41, we’d grown confident in her ability to handle the conditions. Knowing there was a very real risk of us being torn out by a breaking wave, we both had our PFDs on and were doubly clipped into the safety line. We reali
sed that getting separated from Lot 41 was a death sentence. One of us would have no chance of being able to locate the man overboard and paddle a 1-tonne kayak back to rescue him.
As we bobbed up and down through these mountainous waves, our nerves were becoming more and more frayed. Despite being in our Gore-Tex cags, we were completely sodden by the spray and splashing of these waves as they rolled underneath us. It was only a matter of time before one of these walls of water crashed on top of us. As the anticipation built, we tried to dabble in conversation but our words would get lost in the howling wind, so for most of the day we paddled in silence.
Finally, at 2pm we started climbing the side of one of these monsters. As we were lifted up, it seemed to get steeper and steeper, rearing for an attack. We stopped paddling and braced, fear charging through our bodies. Staring in awe at the 3-metre vertical crest of the wave, I was struck by a disturbing thought – had we pushed too hard? Within seconds, it started to curl menacingly over us. There was no escaping this one.
Bam. It crashed down on the kayak. We were immediately engulfed by whitewash as we found ourselves smashed on our side and careering down the bottom 5 metres of the wave. I was certain the rudder would catch and we’d begin to roll, and was terrified by the thought that the safety lines might tangle, trapping us under water.
Crossing the Ditch Page 21