Does technology aid adventure or does it crush the romanticism of it? I strongly believe it will provide the tools to push the remotest frontier even further. Adventure will only be dead when people stop dreaming and stop growing.
When Terry left us, we paddled on for another couple of hours, and couldn’t help the feeling of comfort beginning to glow inside us. We were now within aerial access of New Zealand and fishing boats could get out to us with a short three-hour jaunt from the coast. TracPlus (the NZ company which was providing the beacon on the front of Lot 41 that transmitted our position every six minutes back to our website) had changed our tracking patterns, and was now updating every 30 seconds. We were closing in on our objective and, given the sharp rise in the floor of the Tasman close to shore, our whole support team were nervous about the dangers of re-entry. They were focused on keeping us alive all the way in.
Late afternoon, 114 kilometres from solid ground, we were paddling along in silence on a glassy calm ocean and could feel it breathing as a gentle swell bobbed us up and down. On our starboard side was a fiery mosaic of reds, oranges and yellows dancing through the sky. On our port side to the east, it was more peaceful, with pastel purples and blues softly giving way to one another, preparing for another night. Suddenly an outline formed in front of us. It was a pyramid peeking out above the clouds in front of us.
“Hey, Jonesy,” I said quietly, choking as I tried to hold back tears.
“Yeah, mate,” he replied, concentrating on the next stroke, blissfully unaware of the little piece of information I was about to tell him.
“Look up there – I can see Mount Taranaki,” I said calmly, as relief soaked through my veins.
We both stopped paddling and stared in amazement – it was the most beautiful sight we had ever seen. Land. For the first time in 60 days. I slowly turned round in my pit and our eyes locked for a brief moment. Jonesy had taken his sunglasses off. His eyes were welling up – first the capillaries went red, then tears started washing down his face. Uncontrollably, I followed suit. Sticking my hand out, we embraced each other and wept. Justin, who was usually a bit more emotional than me, had done a brilliant job all expedition in forbidding himself to cry, but at that moment it was too much. We bawled and bawled.
Our reaction was starkly different from when we’d seen mainland Tasmania after paddling across Bass Strait. Back then, we’d been young, naïve and had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. The Tasman journey had taught us so much. Instead of the childish yelling, screaming and singing of “Amazing Grace”, “Waltzing Matilda” and our old school song, we sat in silence, quietly sobbing, and reflected. My mind raced through the previous two months, as well as the four years of preparation that had led to us being out on the Tasman. Vivid memories of our journey flashed through my mind as I stayed fixated on the pyramid in front of us.
We gathered ourselves and resumed paddling, guided now by land. I was on a completely different train of thought now, though, as I couldn’t help thinking about Andrew and how close he’d been to reaching the shore. He would have witnessed a similar scene – the welcoming but still-too-distant New Zealand coast.
After he’d been separated from his kayak, it must have been horrible – indescribably – for him sitting in the water, the lifejacket keeping him bobbing on the surface, probably knowing he wasn’t going to make it through the night. Every now and then, my eyes looked down from the horizon to the black water all around. Remembering my recurring nightmares in which I’d seen Andrew’s ghostly pale face staring at the mountains as tears began to flood down his cheek, I shivered, imagining myself in his position. If I found myself in the water, would I have the energy to battle or would I have to give in? I’ve always been a fighter, but looking down at the ocean with the cloak of darkness approaching, by now I don’t think I was in any state to resist. And I could see myself asking the question, “Was it worth it?”
The remaining light in the sky slowly washed away, handing over duties to the night god. On cue, the Southern Cross began to rise right behind Mount Taranaki. Darkness veiled the slopes of the mountain, leaving the Southern Cross to guide us in.
We continued to paddle together, intent on breaking free of the northwest current. Pushing until midnight, Jonesy then retired to the cabin to get two hours’ kip. Prior to him drifting off to sleep, he had a one-hour sked with Pat, who refused to give us a weather forecast beyond Monday – two days away.
“Boys, you have to arrive on Sunday,” he told us. “I’ve got faith in you – I know you can do it. If there are any anti-inflams or No-Doz on board when you arrive, you haven’t pushed hard enough.”
Pat wanted to get us in to New Zealand on the weekend for two reasons. There was another front approaching in a few days’ time and we didn’t want to be near the coast when it was due to blow in. Also, he thought we’d attract a bit more attention in the media on a Sunday than a weekday – something which hadn’t even occurred to us.
As Jonesy had on the fourth night of the voyage, I similarly experienced a moment of nirvana as I paddled along by myself that evening. A blanket of stars overhead twinkled on the calm sea, keeping me amused every now and then with a shooting star. At 1.30am I was deep into visualising what it was going to be like embracing our families, when a spurt of water erupted a mere 10 metres in front of the kayak.
I was in such a deep trance that it took a couple of moments for the abnormality to register. As my mind laboriously tried to digest this information, another spurt erupted. Then another, and another. Some whales had come up to have a look and keep me company. The events of the previous few hours had amazed me. First seeing land, then the Southern Cross rising behind Mount Taranaki, and now these whales. It was a really spiritual experience, as if there was more to the moment than pure coincidence – it felt like a deeper force was in play.
I was enjoying the moment so much, I hardly noticed our swapover time drifting by. I’d been paddling strongly and was really getting into my stride, so I thought I might as well continue and allow Jonesy to catch up on some sleep. The hours flew by as our speed began to pick up – we were escaping this northwest current and edging closer to our goal.
20
The Smell of Perfume
DAY 61
DIARY, DAY 61 – JAMES
“It’s all been worth it…It feels like we could reach out and touch Mount Taranaki…Magic moment of life.”
As the darkness slowly gave way to the dull morning light at 5am, I felt chuffed with my effort – I’d been out in the pits for 15 hours straight. Waking Jonesy up, he seemed a little dazed and confused that he’d slept right through the night. After realising the mileage I’d put in, he patted me on the back and got ready for his shift. I inserted my earplugs and crashed out for the next three-and-a-half hours as Jonesy took the reins.
Without me realising, a media vessel had come out while I was paddling and apparently they were a little disappointed they hadn’t got shots of us both in action. One of the two cameramen politely asked, “Do you reckon you could wake James up so we can get the two of you?”
Justin almost started laughing, replying, “Not a chance in the world, buddy. He’s just done a huge stint and he’s earned a couple of hours’ kip.”
While I was asleep, Jonesy put in a fantastic shift. I wrote in my diary the next day that my effort that night had probably been “the proudest paddle I’ve ever done in my life”, adding that it had geed Justin up to match it, “which, of course, he did!” I hope he didn’t mind me taking some credit for his efforts…
Both of us were paddling again at 10.15am. Around lunchtime, David Spence, the CEO of Unwired, came out to see us in a coastguard boat. Another familiar face! David had believed in us right from the start, backed us the whole way, and had now made the effort to come out and greet us. He’d played a huge role in making this journey happen. We weren’t quite at our conversational best, but it didn’t matter. As the boat was about to depart, David yelled out some
advice we’ll never forget. It was one of those vivid moments where the clouds seemed to part, and an angel with a halo poetically announced, “Remember – humility, guys…humility. Remain humble.”
At the time, it seemed completely out of context and we didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. Had we begun to come across as arrogant in our media interviews or podcasts? We’d learn later that he was referring to the reception he knew was brewing in New Plymouth and the reaction our arrival was going to generate around the world.
After David and the coastguard had left, other boats began to mill around us. As they did, we felt quite awkward making small talk with our visitors. We were fine answering “media questions”, but when the cameras were off and we had to just have a conversation, we found it difficult. What do you say? “So…how was your Christmas and festive season?” was one question we started asking, in an attempt to help us break the nervous tension that flooded the air.
We felt like an exhibit at the world’s wettest science museum as everyone stared at us in awe. You could see them analysing our every comment and gesture, examining us like lab rats. And, to be fair, we probably would have done the same thing in their situation.
When the boats – and choppers – left towards dusk, we immediately felt comfortable with the isolation and quiet. Because of previous problems I’d had settling back into city life after an expedition, I was becoming a little apprehensive, bordering on scared, of being around lots of people again. After shorter jaunts into the bush or out to sea, I’d struggled big-time, so what would my reaction be like after the Tasman? I knew Jonesy would be alright – he always has been on re-entry. But after Bass Strait, for instance, I’d suffered from post-expedition depression.
I guess any adventure that detaches you from so-called day-today life, pushes your mind and body to the edge and then plants you back in the real world is always going to be difficult to digest. Not that I’m comparing myself to Apollo astronauts (moonwalking will never have the glamour of kayaking…sorry, Neil), but after their once-in-a-lifetime experience, they suffered a high percentage of depression and drug and alcohol abuse, and some committed suicide.
The conditions remained perfect as we drew ever closer to New Zealand. Fighting fatigue and numbness, I wrote in my diary: “We really have beaten any sense out of our brains to listen to the body – stop/rest isn’t a part of our vocabulary any more.”
We were now on full rations and made the decision to stop pumping our fresh water. It was so much fun to be able to eat as much as we wanted at each break. Interestingly, though, within a day we’d got used to this luxury and it no longer brought the enjoyment that it did the day before. It was a micro lesson in materialism and standard of living. The human mind adapts really quickly to higher standards of living and makes that the new benchmark. Gorging ourselves, as well as other luxuries, became a necessity almost instantly.
At 4.40pm, we had 46 kilometres to go. We were now closer than anyone had ever been to crossing the Tasman by kayak. Before we’d allow ourselves to go to sleep on what we hoped would be our final night at sea, we wanted to be close enough to the coast to ensure that nothing would stop our arrival on Sunday. Our fatigue was almost unbearable as we paddled towards the lights of New Plymouth, which dotted the horizon.
On the final night, it was a shame that our nerves were completely frayed and we bickered over lots of little things. Justin wanted to stop and rest, while I was keen to get our distance-to-go down to 20 kilometres before we called it a day. He began to complain that we always did what I wanted and our disagreement started from there.
We compromised, paddling on to 1am, then captured a precious four hours’ sleep. We were so exhausted that our alarms didn’t wake us. Uncannily, we woke up after Justin had a dream that Terry Wise was tapping him on the shoulder, trying to wake him for our final day’s paddle in to shore.
DAY 62
This was it. It would be the last time we’d have to put on wet, shredded thermals, listen to music out of one earphone, and be tethered to Lot 41. We enjoyed the detail of each and every ritual on the morning of day 62. Because of our “sleep-in”, we were caught by some choppers in the morning as we tried to don the thermals, stark naked. Being beyond caring what they thought, we had a job to do and weren’t going to let them influence our routine.
As those choppers left we saw a boat flying towards us, but couldn’t identify who was on board. The first thing that struck me was the stunning aroma of female perfume; from 30 metres away, it was like an atomic blast. I was instantly aroused and was slightly embarrassed then to discover the scent belonged to the 60 Minutes reporter Liz Hayes. (It wasn’t that you’d laid it on too thick, Liz! It was just that I’d smelt nothing but salt, Jonesy and salt for the previous two months.) If I was going into sensory overload from perfume wafting in from metres away, though, I wondered how I’d react once we got to land.
We were soon engulfed by motorboats coming to accompany us in for our final 20 kilometres. Then, on the calm sea, we saw what looked like a platoon of Navy Seals approaching. We had no idea what they were. Suddenly, we realised it was 30 kayakers paddling out to welcome us. Just like when we’d left Forster, we instantly felt more comfortable being surrounded by kayaks, rather than much larger vessels. And as a bonus, Terry had taken on the policeman role to ensure that they didn’t come too close to us. To maintain our voyage’s unsupported status, it was crucial that we didn’t touch another boat.
Among the other visitors, a wild-looking middle-aged man with a healthy beer belly came charging towards us. He was in a 5-horsepower tinnie no larger than a bathtub. As soon as he got close to us, he stood and screamed out, “Rob Browning from the forum. Rat 1 and Rat 2, God bless you bloody legends. God bless you!” he yelled euphorically. We both thought he was absolutely mad being 10 kilometres off the coast in a tiny boat. This was possibly a bit rich, coming from two people who’d paddled 3000 kilometres…
The last couple of days had been a dream. The sea was breathing gently, with only a soft breeze coming from behind us and a favourable current willing us to shore. The Tasman had finally opened the gateway – it seemed to be her way of congratulating us and telling us to enjoy the day. No, we hadn’t tamed her, far from it, but maybe soothed her just a little.
With these great conditions, and surrounded by fellow kayakers and other boats, our hull speed improved to 5 kilometres per hour through the water. We talked with our fellow kayakers, and every now and then gave a friendly wave to a chopper or media boat. Less than one hour to go.
At these moments you never think of basic bodily needs – like peeing! I wondered how many wedding couples had been at the altar, needing to hang a pee? Apparently, that was the first thing Hillary had done when he reached the summit of Everest. From our point of view, we’d become so used to just peeing and stooling over the side whenever the need arose, we just did it. I guess we’d unconsciously become like animals in more ways than we’d realised. We no longer had that freedom with all these people all around. Where could I go? I asked Justin, but all I got was an unsympathetic laugh.
After holding on and holding on, it felt like my internals were about to erupt – I’d always imagined this triumphant moment a bit differently. I just couldn’t keep it in any more – I started peeing in my pit, the spray skirt providing an excellent toilet lid. The perfect crime! Bilging out as much urine as possible, I prepared to just put up with the stench.
With 14 kilometres to go – the distance of a Sydney City-to-Surf – we were greeted by the smell of land, which immediately swamped the aroma of bodily fluids. Just like the waft of perfume a few kilometres beforehand, the scent of grasses, plants, flowers and dirt was overwhelming. The air seemed to have a thickness that’s only carried by land. As we passed an oil freighter moored 2 kilometres off the coast, it blew its ginormous horns a few times as the crew lined the gunwales, cheering and waving. Justin pulled out our rusty aerosol equivalent and honked it back in acknowledgement. T
he huge difference between the bellow from the ship and our tweek-tweek really brought it home – Lot 41 had just been so small out there.
Paddling into the port of New Plymouth, we approached the beach and couldn’t make out any humans. Justin called out, “I think there are a whole heap of funny coloured rocks up there, mate.”
“They’re not rocks, Jonesy, they’re people!” I yelled.
Peering through eyes beginning to well up, he replied, “Holy shit, they are too.”
We were stunned – the shore was lined with thousands of people cheering as madly as if the All Blacks had won the World Cup (like that will ever happen!). Pat had told us to be ready for something huge, but never in our craziest dreams did we expect a reception like this.
The beach was covered with over 25,000 well-wishers and supporters – it was mind-blowing. We paddled on, completely absorbed in the moment (and, thankfully, not being distracted by the need to pee), slowing our cadence down as a traditional Maori outrigger canoe came to escort us through the harbour. One hundred metres from land we gingerly stood up and waved to the crowd, who roared with excitement.
Our legs were weak and standing was difficult – we needed to hold on to our cockpit rims to support our weight: the wash from other vessels was enough to knock us over. As we dipped our paddles in slowly, I instantly made out the red, teary faces of Mum and Lil (they’d always been good at getting to the front of crowds) as they jumped madly up and down. For one brief moment, my eyes locked with Mum’s and we were both oblivious to the hysterical commotion.
As the bow of Lot 41 rubbed up on the sand, I had to refocus one last time on the expedition. It was important for us to reach land completely unassisted so critics would never say that our voyage across the Tasman was aided (it was all incredibly pedantic, I know). Terry remained as the policeman, shepherding the crowd away from us. We took our legionnaire hats and sunglasses off and ceremoniously removed the dog collars – which had held our knives, journals and cameras throughout the expedition – from our chafed necks, carefully stashing them in the bow of the kayak.
Crossing the Ditch Page 25