Crossing the Ditch

by Castrission, James

  Standing up, we both pumped our fists in the air, tore our spray skirts off and untied our safety lines from round our stomachs. This was so symbolic: we were now free from the sea, free from Lot 41.

  On the count of three, we threw ourselves into the waist-deep water, our feet connecting with the earth for the first time in two months and 3318 kilometres. It was a fantastic, completely indescribable moment – we’d done it. We’d done it!

  There was just one minor problem: we could hardly stand up. Immediately realising how weak our legs had become, it was lucky there was a little water around to stabilise us as we lumbered about, trying to find each other for support. Arm in arm we embraced and staggered towards the beach. My legs collapsed after a few steps, but Justin picked me up and kept us going. Our friendship had survived and our support for one another had continued right to the end. We’d stayed friends and made it to NZ – what more could you want?

  As soon as my feet left the water, I looked down at them covered in fine dark sand – they felt detached from the rest of my body. It was a strange thought in the middle of the mayhem, and it was quickly overwhelmed as our families tearily embraced us. Although Mum was lathered in sweat, it didn’t stop me from burying my face into her neck. She’d never held me so tight. She didn’t want to let me go – I was one of her little boys.

  Lil nuzzled her way in between Mum and me, and as I picked her up and our cheeks touched, our tears fused together. Dad, being Dad, had held back briefly until he was shoved into my arms. Underneath his prickly grey beard, choked in tears, he whispered, “I’m so proud of you, son.” It was the most special moment of my life.

  I looked across at Jonesy, who was engrossed in a similar moment with his family. His mother was crying hysterically, repeating his name over and over.

  Everyone, including some news reporters and cameramen, seemed to be welling up. It was completely unbelievable to think we were the cause of all this emotion.

  After the initial family hugs, David Spence and Pat emerged and embraced us too. All we could say was “thank you” over and over – they were the ones who’d made this dream a reality. Then out of the crowd, one by one, burst our closest mates who’d flown over to New Zealand for our arrival – first came Uncle H, Tom, Lach, Tink, Aidan…and good old Jen. Our families and Pat had kept this brilliant secret from us.

  Wow…what was Jen doing there? Up to that point, I think she’d been the only girl I’d ever loved. In the intensity of the moment, I wanted to say something to her, but I couldn’t conjure the strength. Imagine that – we’d just kayaked all the way across the Tasman and when it came to expressing raw human feelings, I hid behind the buzzing commotion.

  By this stage, Jonesy and I were both a whimpering mess – and the commotion was continuing. In front of us, the crowd parted and we were greeted by eight Maori in traditional clothing, adorned with facepaint and performing a haka. How appropriate, as we’d left the shores of Australia to the chant of “Waltzing Matilda”.

  After we’d hugged everyone, and after David had sprayed a bottle of champagne over us all, Tink, Jonesy’s brother Andy, and Clary lifted us onto their shoulders and carried us up to a stage that seemed to have been constructed to celebrate our arrival. At shoulder height, I was once again blown away by the number of people there. My eyes briefly focused on a large sign peeping behind an Australian flag: “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

  As Tink, Clary and Andy deposited us on stage, we were officially greeted by the mayor and the people of New Plymouth. Mayor Pete was a human mountain of a man, and his passion for the Taranaki area was even bigger. If it wasn’t for his remarkable energy, our arrival wouldn’t have been anywhere near as unforgettable as it was. Then, after the formalities, we conducted a few media interviews, where I’m certain we didn’t make much sense.

  Later, we were whisked away in an ambulance for a full blood test and medical check-up. Sitting in the relative quiet of the ambulance with Pat and a nurse, we were able to gather our thoughts a little and allow him to brief us on what was to come.

  Our connection with Pat now meant much more than mere friendship or a “business relationship” – through our time with him out on the Tasman, we’d developed a deep bond. It was more of a paternal relationship he had with us: he’d always been there for our skeds and phone calls and been our voice to the outside world. He’d lived our harrowing moments and often found himself sleepless as he managed the expectations of family, friends, the media, and us out there. In the peacefulness of the ambulance, we locked eyes and shook our heads. We’d made it. I think we were all still in a little shock – had we really just kayaked from Australia to New Zealand?

  I felt giddy at the speed we were travelling – literally. The fastest we’d gone in the previous 62 days was possibly 15 kilometres per hour down the face of a wave in a storm – now the trees and buildings seemed to be flying past our windows. As the nurse took my blood pressure and temperature, I looked down at my limp, sandy feet again. There was a stark contrast between my raggedy clothes and dirty feet and the fresh white sheets of the ambulance bed; my feet still felt alienated from the rest of my body.

  Out on the Tasman, I’d thought we’d looked quite normal, but now, surrounded by showered and well-groomed people, I realised we were a ghastly mess. There was zinc cream lathered all over our faces and Justin’s ratty whiskers were bleached white from exposure to the sun, while with my beard and ragged hair, I knew I didn’t exactly look like Pierce Brosnan right now.

  Lying in the ambulance beds, we passed fresh cherries to each other which had been shoved in our hands – what a great gift! – by a local farmer back at the port. The fresh fruit tasted amazing. As we were wheeled out of the ambulance into the hospital, with the fluorescent lights whizzing overhead, doctors, nurses and patients all poked their heads around to see the two nutty kayakers. After an examination by the doctor, blood samples were taken and we were given the green light to leave. The doctor’s parting words were: “Your bodies have been through an incredibly traumatic experience. Don’t eat too much meat or drink too much alcohol over the next few days.” Justin and I looked at each other wryly and smiled. Whatever made him think we might want to do something like that?

  Reaching our boutique bed and breakfast smack-bang in the middle of town, we were greeted by the friendliest staff imaginable (as well as our friends Zoran and Gordana, who, to their horror, had arrived in New Plymouth two hours after our landing). After everything we’d seen and done, the biggest challenge of the day was actually trying to get up a single flight of steps to our rooms – our legs were so wasted, we needed a person under either arm. When we opened the doors, our eyes almost blew out of our heads: the beds were larger and, we soon discovered, softer than anything we’d seen in our lives! Out on the veranda was a massive basket of fresh fruit and nuts and, as I closed my eyes and bit into the sweetest strawberry of my life, Justin went straight for a can of whipped cream, shaking it and triggering a mouthful. Pieguts – what could you expect?

  After we’d gorged ourselves and jumped on our beds, the 60 Minutes crew – who’d been with us every moment since we left the hospital – left us to have a spa and shower in our rooms. I stood in my thermals, staring into the mirror, and confirmed what I’d been thinking in the ambulance. What a disgusting sight! My beard was mangly and my tattered thermals hung limply on a frame that resembled a coat hanger – there wasn’t an ounce of muscle or fat left.

  Tearing my clothes off, I carefully examined my naked body: it looked different through the eyes of a mirror and in a marble-white bathroom (compared to what I’d been seeing the last couple of months). I was starkly out of place and felt like an impostor. There was just too much contrast between this stunning room and my ragged animal appearance – I belonged outside.

  Sinking into the larger-than-life spa with bath gel frothing bubbles almost felt the same as sliding into my cockpit. I gazed at my weather-beaten hands, where multi-storey blisters had
formed, and repeated to myself, “We made it, you’re safe now. We made it, mate.” I was really having trouble getting it to sink in.

  As I swam around in the spa, scrubbing the zinc and Sudocrem off my skin, every now and then I plunged my face into the water, allowing my long hair to float on the surface. Turning the spa off, the bubbles dissipated quickly and, to my horror, left behind a browny soup with bits and pieces of skin, hair, pubes and strapping tape floating around.

  I stood up and turned on the shower for phase two of the cleaning process. Pulling the plug, I saw much more than just dirt, grime and salt crystals flow down the pipes. We’d left the ocean and a part of us would always remain out there. Life was going to move on now and it would never be the same.

  We met our family and friends downstairs for a drink, then made our way to a Lone Star restaurant, where the biggest stack of ribs and steak were waiting. We’d had plenty of cravings out on the Tasman, but the most powerful was for juicy, succulent pork ribs. A local Speight’s beer was energetically shoved in our hands and two mountains of ribs immediately followed. The chefs looked on as we separated the meat with our steak knives with surgical precision. The flavour flooded my taste buds in every sense of the word – it felt as if the volume of appreciation had been tweaked up in every facet of my life in the hours since we’d returned to land.

  That’s one of the beautiful aspects of adventure – it’s taught me true appreciation in every sense of the word. Mastery will come (I imagine) when I can continue to operate at that level of appreciation for the rest of my life. In the past, I’ve found it so easy to swing quickly back into my old habits, forgetting how good that steak really is, or for that matter my family, or even that flower I walk by on my way to work. Deprivation seems to be the key.

  I peered through the tower of ribs between Jonesy and me, struggling to make a dent in this monolithic pile of pig. I was amazed that J had devoured his whole stack and moved on to his sister’s and mother’s plates. He’d written down four pages of cravings during the journey and was apparently now on a mission to satisfy each one of them. Within 10 days of being back on land, he’d put on 6 kilograms – nice one, Pieguts.

  Completely exhausted, we made our way back to our B&B for an early night. Our two rooms were on either side of the corridor, and before going in, we stood at our doors and stared at one another.

  “Mate,” I said feebly.

  “Yeah, Cas.”

  “If you need anything tonight, or you can’t sleep, just come on in – I’ll leave my door unlocked.”

  “Me too, Cas. Me too. Thanks for an incredible journey.”

  I couldn’t believe the amazing transformation Jonesy had undergone over the previous four years. Sure, it had been slow, but he had really progressed so far as a mate from those early days when he was constantly pissing his time against the wall. The expedition had forced responsibility upon him, mainly because of the problems I’d experienced with seasickness, and he had pulled through. He’d become the captain of Lot 41 through his constant loyalty, unselfishness and unwavering commitment to the mission at hand. The expedition had strengthened our bond so much that calling him a mate doesn’t sum it up at all – he had become, and will be forever, much more than that to me. Through the Tasman becoming our surrogate mother, by default we had become brothers. There is now an iron-clad bond that can never be broken.

  We embraced and patted one another on the back. Finally in my room, I expected to crash out immediately and not wake for the next week, but strangely I found myself staring at the ceiling for the entire night, only capturing about 15 minutes’ sleep. The incredible energy from all the people at our arrival and the events of the day turned that ceiling into a plasma screen on repeat. It was one of those moments in my life I’ll never forget – as they say, life is not about the number of breaths that you take, but the number of moments that take your breath away. Our arrival – no, the journey over the past four years – had been one of those moments, and my body was way too wired to get any sleep.

  At midnight, I flicked the TV on to see our story on BBC World News and CNN. (Media coverage of our expedition even made it as far as the Niagara Cafe in Gundagai. The current owners temporarily plastered over the photos of Prime Minister John Curtin with clippings of our arrival – which was pretty cool.) Already, it didn’t feel like us. Switching the telly off, the scenes playing in my head were even more vivid.

  I woke at 3am and started writing. During the last couple of days of the expedition, Jonesy and I had talked about what life might have in store for us after the ditch and I now started writing down post-Tasman goals, thoughts and feelings. I was already feeling a little restless about not having a goal to aim for or channel my energy towards. I guess this is one of the inherent weaknesses of being a goal-oriented person – what happens once you achieve your goal?

  If there is one thing the Tasman taught us, it’s that dreams are possible to be realised…but unfortunately we’ve had to work bloody hard for them. For J and me, life has never been about what we’ve done or achieved in the past, but using that experience to provide the skills and knowledge to tackle larger objectives in the future. It’s a continual journey of self discovery and growth – if we achieve these out of an experience, it’s been a success.

  I did know, though, that for us the Tasman was just the beginning, the first rung on a ladder that provided plenty of lessons for the future. The question we then faced was what those future adventures and dreams might be. There was no gravity weighing down our expectations – we’d proved to ourselves that we could do whatever we wanted to do.

  I started brainstorming each facet of my life and excitedly channelled that energy through the wee hours. Meanwhile, dazed and confused, Justin jumped up out of bed at 5.30am and looked around for his paddling gear and paddle.

  After breakfast, the 60 Minutes producer reminded us that we’d signed an exclusive agreement with them, and that if we spoke to any other media, they’d have to cancel the contract. Understandably he was trying to protect his asset, but for the next couple of days we felt like we were confined to a straitjacket by the fear he instilled in us. In a way, our minds were on a different planet and we found it hard to reject interviews from people who’d followed our journey from Forster and who we’d spoken to via satellite linkups while out on the Tasman.

  Unfortunately, Pat – rather prematurely – left New Zealand that day. We wanted to share the “mission” success with him, and assumed that he’d be there to look after us as he’d done when we were out at sea. However, his wife was back in Sydney looking after their baby boy, so understandably he couldn’t stick around.

  It was at this time that one of our best friends, Tom Mitchell, our only good-looking mate, stood up to fill the role of our “manager”. Since we’d left Australia, he’d done an outstanding job running the media side of things. Tom had always been a great talker and we would have found those first few days back on land pretty difficult without him. We latched on to him to make decisions for us and provide a buffer from the now-foreign outside world.

  As we were beginning to discover, there were numerous people pushing and pulling us in different directions – everyone from our friends and family to sport managers, media and the public seemed to be trying to mould us into what they wanted or expected of us. Everybody had their two bobs’ worth on how we should be acting in public and in the media, what we should wear, how we should carry ourselves etc. But we were Justin and James – the same two mates who’d left Forster two months before, and as the days progressed, we found the pressure quite difficult to deal with.

  The first morning on dry land, we sat down with Liz Hayes and the crew for a gruelling five hours of interviews, conducted at the local sailing club. She was incredibly friendly and after a while it felt like just having a chat with someone over a coffee – the cameras were all but forgotten.

  On our arrival the day before, we hadn’t had much of a chance to mingle with the locals, wh
o’d flooded both our families and ourselves with warmth and hospitality. Everything had happened pretty quickly before we’d been stuffed into an ambulance and whisked away. Fortunately, that afternoon Mayor Pete put on another public function so we had a little more time to meet the people of New Plymouth, sign a few autographs – over 600! (which took four hours) – and display our majestic, but stinky kayak. For a couple of months, we thought she’d smelt quite welcoming, but all of a sudden I was just as appalled as onlookers seemed to be. The occasion had a fantastic vibe to it and we were just so grateful for how welcome the town made us feel.

  That evening, a local bar put on a “welcome back” party for us. For the previous two years, I’d controlled myself with my alcohol intake, knowing that being hungover would hinder my training. That night, though, was one of the wildest, loosest nights of our lives. We consumed stupid amounts of alcohol and found ourselves unashamedly stripping down to our undies on the dance floor to “It’s Raining Men” by Geri Halliwell! All-up, it was four years of pressure released in one night. Both of us ended up taking a local girl back to our rooms that evening, which isn’t something we’re particularly proud of – but after spending two months in a kayak with another hairy, smelly bloke, we were ridiculously horny.

  At 7.30 the following morning, after two hours’ sleep, we found ourselves conducting our final 60 Minutes interview in NZ. We reeked and felt like crap – nothing different from cabin-bound life in a mid-Tasman storm then.

  Four days after our arrival in NZ, we flew back home to Sydney – it was the first time I’d ever flown business class. Looking down at the sea 40,000 feet below, Justin and I toasted crossing the ditch with a gin and tonic in hand. Every now and then, the cabin crew would tell us the exact latitude and longitude of our position and our minds would instantly be transported back to life on the Tasman at that location. Again, I kept asking the question: had we really spent two months in a kayak out there? Blasting along in the opposite direction at 800 kilometres per hour, I was struggling to come to grips with how far it actually was.