Any escape from the Tasman was failure. We couldn’t bail so close to land, or “just have a rest for a few days”, as the NZ authorities would come and pick us up for sure. We were also too far from the shore to be able to let ourselves relax. Our actions were now being driven by the momentum created. We were trapped. The main difference from my days as an accountant was that Justin and I owned this dream – or nightmare; sometimes I wasn’t sure which. It was all ours and to make it happen we had no choice. If we’d been forced on this mission by an employer or an army officer, we would have collapsed from exhaustion and mental breakdown long ago.
19
Aotearoa Whispers – A Dandelion Floats By
The rawness of life at sea was a simple matter of survival; however, once this was taken care of, our minds had the chance to roam and explore almost endlessly – to dream about the future and anything else that drifted into our thoughts. The expedition had given us close to two months for reflecting on our lives.
Our relatively simple existence on Lot 41 meant that we didn’t have to filter the truckloads of information usually dumped on us every day. In fact, the smoke had cleared so much that the most basic childlike questions began to occur to us. “Why is the ocean blue?”, “Why is the whitewash from waves more powerful than fully formed non-breaking waves?”, “Are all bubbles white?”, “How does a tug boat pull oil rigs around the world under constant load up and down waves?” (One of the forumites provided the answer to that one – thanks, Ol Oiler!) Back in the “real world”, if we’d had such an inquisitive state of mind, our brains would probably have exploded with the overload.
DAY 57
The wind built a little overnight, but fortunately nowhere near as much as the 70-kilometre-per-hour blast Pat had predicted in last night’s sked. We woke to a gentle 10-kilometre-per-hour breeze from the north – maybe the trough had been delayed? We scampered out into the pits to try and notch some mileage under our belt before we got hit. Although it was cold and rainy, we were buoyed by our average speeds of 4.5 kilometres per hour.
As waves of hunger focused our thoughts, I asked Justin whether he thought Scott of the Antarctic had ever considered eating other members of his party on that fateful journey. It might sound a bit ghoulish, but I told Jonesy that if I were to die now and we were out of food, I’d want him to eat me – I was sure I’d be tasty – and arrive in New Zealand carrying the flag for us both. He was the same. Before departing, we’d been undecided on this scenario, but now that we were in the situation, the answer was clear. We’d become so psychotically single-minded about finishing what we’d started, nothing would block our success.
From the safety of base camp, it’s always been easy to say that those unfortunate souls who died going for the summit, or any other objective, should have turned back. In the past, I’ve turned back on many summits, knowing that the mountains would always be there to climb. But this was different. The only way we could push ourselves to reach the land of the long white cloud – or Aotearoa, as the Maori call it – was to convince ourselves that there was no other option. Never in my life had I had such clarity for an objective. The risk of death, pain to family and friends and long-term damage to my body no longer registered in the decision-making process. These were all distant distractions with hardly any impact.
The Tasman was encouraging something other than our childlike inquisitiveness. Another beautiful aspect of being out there was the amount of time we had to visualise the future and where we could see our lives going. Before leaving Forster, we were so driven by our desire to cross the Tasman that life afterwards didn’t exist. We’d deal with it when we got there. Now on the water, we could spend hours and days dreaming about anything that crossed our minds. These meandering conversations planted all sorts of seeds that might eventually blossom when we hit dry land. But this dreamtime didn’t happen overnight, or even in the first week or fortnight – it took us over a month to get any kind of clarity. Looking back on it now, we’re grateful we had so much time and space.
That evening, we had the longest sked of the expedition so far – 90 minutes. Everyone back home was beginning to get very excited, and the media was starting to go crazy. Pat tried to paint a picture of the reach and impact our expedition was having. We were averaging over 15,000 visitors a day to the website, all major papers in Australia were running daily articles and there seemed to be a heap of people wanting to be there for our arrival. We found it hard to break our mid-Tasman mindset and realise that we were actually bearing in on our arrival.
DAY 58
DIARY, DAY 58 – JAMES
“A plane! First people we have seen in 40 days since Aquarelle. We could see their faces and what the pilot was wearing – a red striped vest. They hung around for two hours. Awesome to have some company out here.”
155 kilometres to go. We started the morning with three TV interviews: with the Sunrise program on Channel Seven, Channel Nine’s Today show and 2GB radio. Frustratingly, these interviews delayed us getting into the pits till 8.30am. We had to remain focused. The memory of Andrew McAuley was ever present and we knew we couldn’t let our guard down for one minute. We’d defined entry into New Zealand as being the most dangerous phase of the expedition – similar to climbers returning from a summit.
We were mentally and physically wasted and facing a hazardous stretch of ocean that potentially threatened our survival. Approximately 80 kilometres off the NZ coast, the ocean floor of the Tasman rises steeply from 4 kilometres deep to 100 metres in just a few kilometres. This can play havoc with both currents and swell height. In the right sea state (or not), steep monstrous walls of water up to 20 metres high can form in these areas. They have a reputation for sinking container ships and frightening sailors all around the world. We’d decided to “sit off” the shelf if there was a big blow expected and only cross it when the weather forecast remained tranquil.
Once past barrier number one, we’d be faced with a changed sea state where the waves would be much more steep and choppy. As we’d found, this felt like dragging Lot 41 through knee-deep mud – she hated it. Each wave would stop our momentum, resulting in excruciatingly difficult paddling that burned more calories than we had available. Additionally, the currents round the coast of NZ are renowned for their strength and power. We’d experienced “mild” currents and the enormous impact they had on our progress all the way across, and dreaded having to deal with more powerful currents so near the coast.
The problem with being so close to shore is that we couldn’t just chuck out the anchor or drogue and let the ocean chuck us around. We’d run out of sea room and run the risk of being smashed up on the rugged coastline. Equally, we dreaded the prospect of landing on one of the wild beaches of NZ. It would be ugly, and the chances of both Lot 41 and us being smashed up were high. It was a high priority to reach a harbour. Unfortunately, there are only a handful of suitable ports on the West Coast.
Pat was well aware of these risks as were RCC NZ and Terry Wise, who’d escorted us out of the heads in his yacht Brindabella at the beginning of our first sea trial and who was going to supervise our passage the last few days. Our family, friends and the wider public stayed somewhat oblivious to these hazards, which made balancing the expectations of the media, our sponsors and our supporters quite difficult. Often the media would get frustrated when we made it clear we only had x amount of time for an interview. But we had to stay switched on to our primary objective, which was to get to land safely. With the wind coming from the north, we’d now decided that New Plymouth would be our landfall.
New Plymouth is a lively small city on the stunning southwest coast of New Zealand’s North Island. With a population of just under 70,000 people, it is nestled between the rugged coast and the flanks of Mount Taranaki. The locals proudly boast that it’s by far the best place to live in NZ; with the ability to go for a surf in the morning and then ski in the afternoon, while being surrounded by one of the most stunning landscapes around. We co
uldn’t have chosen a better landfall.
About this time, we sadly farewelled Bruce and Larry. There was increased fish activity as we were approaching New Zealand, and our two intrepid friends had obviously decided it was too dangerous to stick around. We were surprisingly lonely without them.
Paddling along early in the afternoon, the long-awaited trough – from Pat’s sked a couple of days earlier – sailed through without too much puff. We were able to remain in the pits as it passed, then were greeted by glorious paddling conditions. It seemed that the news crews had been waiting for this moment, and before long we had a number of helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft buzzing overhead.
Initially, we just stared at them, astonished. We could clearly make out that the first pilot was clean-shaven, with a red woollen vest hiding his small pot belly. A wave of relief washed over me: at least if the shit hit the fan we were within chopper distance of NZ – helicopters could only fly 350 kilometres from the coast.
The initial wave of relief unexpectedly gave way to a feeling that they were both outsiders and intruders; like they didn’t belong out here. Weirdly, like an only child suddenly confronted with a brother or sister, we felt a twinge of jealousy at having to share the sea with anyone else. We’d been waiting so long for this moment of human contact, but we were soon urging them to leave us alone with the Tasman – “our Tasman” – a little bit longer. Over the next couple of days, quiet paddling with just the sounds of the ocean would become a distant memory. Land was now near.
When the aircraft left us, we began to focus on some of the realities facing us on arrival. During the voyage, our minds had wandered endlessly through the infinite possibilities of the future, but ironically we’d overlooked a lot of life’s practical details. Where would I live when I got back to Australia? How would we get back to Australia (we hadn’t even thought about booking a flight)? And even the most mundane thing – it looked like we’d be walking the streets of NZ barefoot, because we’d forgotten to pack a pair of shoes.
Mulling over these issues, four birds in perfect line formation passed over us, headed directly for the nearest landfall. Realising that our winged buddies would probably arrive before sunset, we were instantly envious. We might miss the tranquillity of the sea, but we were still desperate to get to New Zealand. Only a couple more days now…only a couple more days, I whispered to myself.
DAY 59
130 kilometres to go. As the sea had built through the night, it made sure we didn’t get any more than four hours’ sleep. We woke to 45-kilometre-per-hour winds from the south, a similar feel to those conditions we’d paddled in over the festive season, but smaller.
Crawling out of the cabin, we gaffa-taped the video camera onto the solar panels, hoping to capture some exciting paddling. We hoped that the cabin would act like a sail and we’d fly through the 5–7-metre swell that had developed. We believed the opportunity would present and we had to be ready for it.
Mid-morning we were greeted by our first tangible sign of land that must have blown from the South Island – a dandelion (although, with our minds as fuzzy as they were, we couldn’t recall the name at the time!). I remembered blowing on these white balls of fluff as a kid and making a wish, but I guess it was pretty obvious – even to a dandelion – what I was wishing for at this stage.
Maybe it was just tiredness, but I had a general feeling of uneasiness all day. I was getting frustrated with Jonesy falling into the trap of summit fever. In the past, I’d climbed mountains with people who’d stopped following decision-making processes, precautions and rules, because the summit was “just over there”. Complacency would get us killed.
I was determined for us to keep everything the same – it wasn’t the time for us to change any of our systems. One month earlier, there was no chance in the world that we would have been out paddling in these conditions. Now that there was such a short distance to go, though, we were tempted to start altering our eating, paddling and desalinating patterns.
We’d rigorously established a routine that was keeping us alive, and in these final stages, I was putting an exaggerated emphasis on keeping this routine. I didn’t want us to change anything – keen to ensure we could survive out here for another month if we had to. To that effect, it felt a tad odd pumping three hours each day when land was only a maximum of four days away. Was it a waste of energy?
It was around this distance from shore that Andrew McAuley had got into trouble, and his spirit seemed to engulf us. We couldn’t escape this feeling that was everywhere and everything. I’ve never believed in ghosts or the like, but there was something there. At times, I got pangs of uneasiness but generally it was a feeling of acceptance and approval. Obviously I can’t know for sure, but it felt like he was there, tapping us on the shoulder and saying, “Well done, boys, you’ve done good.” It did feel, in a way, as if all three of us were sharing in the journey.
There was more sadness in the air when we learnt that Sir Edmund Hillary had just passed away. Apparently, there’d been the possibility that he’d be on the beach at New Plymouth to welcome us in. Sir Ed had inspired us so much throughout our adventures.
Based on the weather forecasts, we weren’t expecting to be out here any more than three to four days. In hindsight, it seems a little irrational, but my anal stubbornness only 10 hours earlier to stick to our processes had eased a bit, and finishing up for the afternoon, we decided it was time to get stuck into the remaining food provisions. We’d deprived our bodies long enough – meagre rations were now a thing of the past.
As I wrote in my diary, we pillaged the “food stores in bow this arvo – took all the Snickers bars, dehydrated food – we’re coming in to land, baby.” Our minds had shifted outlook. There was no holding us back.
DAY 60
DIARY, DAY 60 – JAMES
“Terry looks like a madman! Don’t know who is more excited – him or us?”
The sea built through the night to 55 kilometres per hour from the southeast. Adding to the frustration of being so close was our northwesterly drift of 1.5 kilometres per hour. We kept drumming into ourselves that it was no different from being mid-Tasman. We stayed in the cabin in the morning and the seas gave way to a stunning afternoon as we hit the sticks. Although we were still pushing current, the conditions were perfect without a cloud in sight.
We gave a couple of friends a call in the morning – we needed some morale boosting. Both Wade – a friend who I’d boxed with at uni – and Ben were excited to hear our voices but a bit concerned about our lack of mental aptitude. I asked Wade how he was going with a book he’d been reading over two years earlier; then at the end of the conversation, I said, “I’ll just pass you on to Mum now,” and handed the phone to Jonesy.
Mid-afternoon, paddling along under a brilliant sky, I was listening to the last seven hours of The Power of One when we spotted a large aluminium-hulled fishing vessel approaching our port side. As we tried to work out exactly who was on board, we saw the well-built silhouette of Terry Wise, standing on the cabin roof waving his hands frantically back and forth.
A large-framed, seasoned sailor, his childlike enthusiasm as he waved in crazed semaphore epitomised his personality. As he and the rest of the crew approached us, we were awash with nervous excitement. We were about to have our first proper interaction with someone apart from each other in nearly seven weeks. How would we react?
It was hard to sum up 60 days of the most vivid highs and lows of my life in a half-hour conversation. Fortunately, Terry had spent years sailing around the world and had gone through similar experiences, so even if we weren’t making much sense he understood us.
When we resumed paddling, our cadence was noticeably faster and our speed through the water had increased. Jonesy and I both revel in being isolated from “civilisation”, but the whole way across, there was a clear correlation between our contact with the outside world, our morale and the progress we made. For example, two days earlier, when we’d initially see
n the choppers and planes buzzing round, and again today with Terry, our stroke rate had picked up significantly.
Although we hadn’t had regular, direct contact with people on the Tasman, the online forum had provided a similar boost. The forum let everyone involved, including us, experience something special. Take one of the forum regulars, Ol Oiler, for instance. Every couple of days he’d post incredibly entertaining and well-written short stories on his life working on tug boats. His yarns provided us with hours of entertainment and gave him the chance to be part of a community as he battled with cancer. (Sadly, Ol Oiler passed away a couple of months after our return. At his funeral, he had a photo of Lot 41 on top of his coffin – we’d never had the opportunity to meet him.)
It was fantastic being able to share our experience with Ol Oiler, and, in a similar vein, I think in the future the impact that human contact can have in the most extreme environments will push adventurers beyond previous boundaries. This communication is going to be one of the defining elements of adventure through this period in history. If Scott or Mallory had had constant contact with their loved ones, could they have pushed that little harder? Could Scott have returned to One Ton Depot and Mallory to High Camp?
Explorers of yesteryear took photos and letters of loved ones to help them through difficult times. The thought of having live video conferencing when clinging to the side of a mountain or being rolled in mountainous seas is mind-blowing. And this technology isn’t far off.
Of course, there’s also the question of whether all this takes away from the purity of the adventure. As I said one day on the video diary, “Gone are the days when 30 staunch blokes go down to Antarctica and return in five years, if they’re lucky. If our tracking beacon goes down for five minutes, the world (well, parts of the world) panics. The dynamics of adventure are changing. It’s fascinating to be a part of it. Is it a good thing?”
Crossing the Ditch Page 24