At Sydney airport there was another media scrum and a couple of hundred mates and bystanders to welcome us home. A new beer label had sent the face of their new campaign, “Miss Bondi Blonde”, and some other models to the airport to escort us to a limousine. That night, they launched the beer at a ritzy bar and asked us to throw on our penguin suits and join them. It was obviously incredibly confronting being face-to-face with my idols from the Sydney glitterati, not to mention my heroes from Home and Away – and to think we were being paid for the privilege!
We milked these experiences for what they were, but knew it was ridiculous to think of ourselves as celebrities. It was so weird having women throw themselves at us – it seemed insane that picking up had never been so easy. In the past, if we’d succeeded in our feeble attempts to woo a girl with our charms, she’d usually had a couple too many or we’d been plain lucky.
The fickleness of human behaviour struck a chord that we couldn’t stop thinking about. Over the ensuing weeks, we had girls who we’d liked in the past flinging themselves at us with love letters, texts and just having to see us. Trying to make sense of all this was quite confusing – we were still exactly the same two blokes as when we’d left. Although we had a great time and enjoyed the company of those people we hadn’t seen for years, our close friends were the ones who’d been in it for the long haul, and they were the ones we felt most comfortable with.
Within a couple of days of being back in Sydney, we booked in to have our post-expedition DEXA scan. This was done on a machine that looks somewhat similar to an MRI unit, which scans up and down your body compiling information on muscle, fat and bone density of each limb of the body.
The results were fascinating: over the course of the expedition, Justin had lost approximately 10 kilograms, of which 5 kilograms was muscle and five fat. I’d lost approximately 6.5 kilograms, but 90 per cent of that weight loss was muscle and only 10 per cent fat. My percentage body fat actually went up through the expedition as I lost proportionally more muscle than fat. Apparently, I should either have had a higher fat percentage going into the expedition (Jonesy kept telling me I should have been supersizing each and every meal – maybe he was right!), or my diet should have had a higher percentage of protein. This would have prevented my body from cannibalising muscle stores when it got hungry.
Many expeditioners over the years have argued on both sides of the fence as to the benefits of pre-expedition bulking up. From our experience, we’re definitely on the side that it’s beneficial to bulk up both fat and muscle stores. Back in the 1970s, in Kathmandu on the way to Mount Everest, the famous British mountaineer Don Whillans was given grief about his excess weight compared to his lean counterparts. His reply to this nay-sayer was: “In three months’ time I’ll look like them and they’ll probably be dead.” Science has progressed since that time, but the principles remain the same.
The human body is incredibly resilient and, in the case of Jonesy and me, it had bounced back quite quickly. The muscle rejuvenated and blood tests revealed that internally we were healthier than we’d ever been. The biggest lag in our recovery was exhaustion.
When we finally got back home in front of a computer, over 1500 emails were sitting in our inbox. We made sure we eventually responded to each one – that took us six months! – but initially we felt under more pressure to deal with emails from prospective managers, book publishers, companies wanting us to endorse their products and more.
Mentally, we were still out at sea and because of the exhaustion we found it difficult to keep our concentration and make decisions. We knew we needed a manager to deal with these requests. But which one? Although Tom had done a great job looking after us in the early days, he was about to head over to England to pursue his dream to be an actor – watch out, Hugh Jackman!
For the first six months we engaged celebrity management agency The Fordham Company to secure commercial opportunities and to capitalise on what we’d achieved. They were fantastic at negotiating on our behalf, quick to snap up deals and offered great advice. However, as our bodies slowly recovered, we were reminded of a lesson we’d learnt in preparing for the Tasman. The only people who’d make our dreams and goals a reality were ourselves. This was supported by Nick Fordham, who also encouraged us to take over some areas of our commercial affairs and treat them like running our own business.
I didn’t want to go back to life as an accountant – there were heaps of valuable lessons that Jonesy and I had learnt which we felt passionate about sharing with others. So far, our post-Tasman career has consisted of writing this book you’ve just read, getting a documentary off the ground, sharing our story with thousands of people round the world with a keynote presentation about crossing the ditch, and of course…dreaming of our next adventure.
We’ve really enjoyed presenting our Tasman experiences to the public, even though at school I found it difficult to stand up in class and read a simple passage from a book. I’ve always had a bit of a lisp and at an all-boys school, my classmates gave me endless grief about my diction. It’s funny, but both Justin and I now have such a great time up on stages around the world sharing our journey. Some people have been critical of us making a living out of our Tasman experience, but why can’t your work be something that provides you with so much enjoyment?
After leaving school eight years ago, I’d become a chronic diary writer. In 2008, I forced out just four quite-short entries, when in the past they’d flowed effortlessly. Why? I think it’s because I’ve now found what makes me happy. Diaries had provided a release for me when I was confused and unsure of my place in this world. It was the lessons that the outdoors kept drilling home that taught me the true roots of motivation – personal growth and love (of yourself as much as anyone else).
It was in this discovery that I learnt the first stage was to love myself. Through my early 20s, I found it difficult to find love in my life – I abused my body and very nearly killed myself climbing on numerous occasions. On returning from the Tasman, I found myself in a beautiful relationship. Waking up each day with Mia has become as exciting as climbing any mountain or any ocean adventure. When I share the outdoors with her (or just normal life), the experience seems to explode 10-fold with enjoyment. To me, it adds saturation to the picture – making each day just that much more vivid. I feel like love really is the essence of my soul – without it, I’m constantly searching; with it, I’m happy. By depriving myself of this basic human need, I made it impossible to find true happiness.
Adventure is relative. By no means can I see myself pushing the limits of my own endurance for the rest of my life. Although I love what I do now, I can see how the framework Justin and I learnt in putting together the Tasman expedition could be applied to other life experiences – from preparing for a day cragging up in the Blue Mountains to buying my first home.
The two best things that came out of the Tasman were that we arrived in New Zealand better mates than we left and we still enjoy our paddling. They were the super important objectives in defining what was meant by a “successful expedition”. In 2008, neither of us did much paddling – I live in the Blue Mountains these days, climbing as much rock as possible. I’m now climbing harder than ever before.
This has been less to do with my physical strength or technique improving, and more to do with my motivation and focus – lessons that the Tasman taught me. A large source of my motivation for climbing in the past was the ego boost I received from climbing hard, bold routes. These days, I climb for other reasons – trying to learn something new about myself. At the end of a day’s climbing, I love to reflect on how I’ve dealt with things like fear, pushing myself physically to the limit or how I’ve managed to channel my focus. Interestingly, this shift in motivation has led to me climbing dramatically harder grades.
Justin, on the other hand, has enjoyed being back in Sydney – catching up with friends, doing the odd bushwalk, and going out. He’s been spending some of his spare time finishing off his Ma
sters of Commerce and taken a keen interest in the post-production of the footage we captured on the Tasman.
And as for our dear friend Lot 41, who looked after us for 62 days on one of the wildest and most unpredictable seas in the world, we felt deeply obliged to find her a good stable to rest in. We donated her to the Australian National Maritime Museum, where they’ll do a great job of nurturing and caring for her.
21
Heading for the Chocolate Factory
Within weeks of returning to Sydney, the adventure bug began nibbling away at me again – I needed a project to sink my teeth into and I knew what it had to be. It was a place that had always held a starry-eyed fascination for me – it was the factory of adventure and home to some of the most inhospitable beauty on the planet. Stunning landscapes, masses of animals you only ever saw in documentaries, combined with fierce weather and a long history of exploration – all of this had captivated me since I’d first started reading books for fun. When the idea hit me about going there, excitement just flowed through my blood, generating the same energy as when I first began to dream of the Tasman. To me, this was the closest thing to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory that I could think of.
With that in mind, in April 2008, a couple of months after returning from the Tasman, I felt ready for another trip to Wonka Land with Jonesy (who, ironically, was beginning to bear a faint resemblance to Augustus Gloop).
I was heading up to the Blue Mountains for a weekend’s climbing when I made the call. I was a bit surprised by how nervous I felt. As with the Tasman, I knew I couldn’t do this expedition without Justin. “Hey, J, what’s been happening?”
“Not much, mate, since I saw you a couple of hours ago.”
He had me there. I decided to move on quickly to my romantic proposal. “How’d you like to catch up for dinner?” I asked.
“You’re not really my kind of guy,” he chuckled. “Anyway, this sounds ominous – I’m sensing déjà vu.”
“There’s nothing to worry about – but I do need to talk to you about something.”
Jonesy could see right through me. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. I told my parents that the Tasman was going to be my last big adventure…”
We arranged to have dinner a few days later at the same pizzeria where I asked Justin about paddling to New Zealand. There was the same big barrel-chested man with the same moustache making the same pizzas. There was no Libby this time, but her “successor” looked strikingly similar. It’s funny how, coming back from an adventure, I always seemed to be more aware of people doing the same job year in, year out, which I think I’d struggle to do. Occasionally I wish (and so does my poor mother) that I wasn’t as restless as I am. At times, life would be so much easier.
I could tell Jonesy had had a couple of big nights. There were bags under his eyes and the normally chalk-white sclera were a dirty yellow in colour.
“Don’t ask,” he said before I had time to question him. “Had a coupla massive nights.”
We couldn’t stop laughing – we’re the same people we’ve always been.
We spent a few minutes chatting about what we’d done the previous weekend, but before long Justin said, “Tell me what you’re thinking, Cas.”
There was a brief silence. I wondered how I was going to bring the subject up. I decided to launch straight in.
“Antarctica, mate,” I excitedly belted out. “How ‘bout it? I’ve got this idea to do something truly amazing down there.”
His face lit up and, without hesitating, he smiled. “I’m in – let’s do it!”
Signalling to the waitress to bring us a pen, we looked down at the paper tablecloth and started scribbling. The energy of the Tasman began to flow through us as the ideas hit the table. Once again, we felt alive.
Photographic Insert
Justin and myself as young kids. As Craig – the Lot 41 electrical engineer – used to say: “That’s cute.”
The two of us as teenagers. No wonder girls didn’t talk to us.
Above left: Justin and myself wearing skirts together. Cadets at school gave us our first taste of the outdoors.
Above right: One of our early bushwalks together. Ninety kilometres in 50 hours and no sleep. Fun!
Right: Celebrating our successful 2560-kilometre paddle down the Murray River in 2001-02. Note the huge crowd there to greet us.
Below: Midway across Bass Strait, during our 350-kilometre paddle in 2006 between Wilsons Prom and Tasmania.
Above: A model student at the University of New South Wales. Justin (on the left) studying hard for his end-of-semester exams.
Right: Here I am mountaineering in NZ with Mount Aspiring in the background, two weeks after the fall that nearly killed me.
Below: Rock climbing at Mount Arapiles in Victoria on the iconic Kachoong in 2004.
Above: In the early stages of construction of Lot 41. Our overgrown baby dwarfs the red double kayak in the background.
Right: The insides of Lot 41 before the top half was put on. You can see the “waterproof bulkheads that failed on our disastrous sea trial in January 2007.
Bottom left and right: Justin and I worked for thousands of hours on Lot 41.
Above: An ad we designed for our major sponsor. We went to some pretty extreme measures trying to obtain funding for the reconstruction of Lot 41.
Left: It’s January 2007, we’re 10 kilometres off the coast of Sydney on our first sea trial, and we’re about to sink.
Below: Lot 41 on her side and full of water after that dismal sea trial.
Some of the team who made it all possible. Top, left to right: Terry Wise, Craig Thomsen, Rob Feloy. Middle, left to right: Tom Mitchell, Pat Brothers, Roger Badham. Bottom, left to right: Ben Barin, Larry Gray, David Spence.
Dr Glenn Singleman teaching us how to suture and apply IV drips to one another. We practised on pigs’ hoofs, hoping that we’d never have to use our training on the Tasman.
Battling seasickness sailing from Brisbane to Papua New Guinea, May 2007. At first you think you’re going to die. Then you’re afraid you won’t.
The last time we saw Andrew McAuley (left) alive. We thought of him constantly when we were out on the Tasman.
Departure from Forster, on the New South Wales north coast, at the beginning of the Tasman expedition, 13 November 2007. Okay, it’s time to rock!
Saying goodbye to Mum was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
Justin reminding his mum to eat her vegetables while he’s away.
Paddling out past the breakwall at Forster: 2200 kilometres to go.
Day 9: Paddling along with the sun belting down on us. The face masks were to stop the inside of our nostrils from getting sunburnt.
Mmm…so that’s how it was done.
Day 12: It wasn’t all bad. Some days were so calm, we couldn’t tell where the sea ended and the sky began.
Life inside Lot 41 was very cosy.
All sorts of blisters, ulcers and salt sores formed in the most unusual places.
Late on the afternoon of day 34, pumping the manual desal, which provided us with enough fresh water to keep us going.
Day 36 and a huge wall of water crashes over the bow. At times, we felt more like a submarine than a kayak.
Absolutely buggered. Around day 55 and still a long way from land…
“I dare you to pat him.” When your kayak is being attacked by a couple of sharks, fear can make you say the strangest things.
Lot 41 from the eyes of a chopper on a calm, clear day – just the way we liked it.
Sleeping arrangements in the cabin. Note the photos from home above Justin’s head.
One more stroke. Some days, you just had to keep repeating the mantra over and over again.
The deceptively tranquil morning of day 62. Mount Taranaki is in sight, and the biggest celebration of our lives is drawing near.
Sixty-two days and 3318 kilometres behind us. Land ahoy – you beauty!
An indescrib
able experience. Being carried up Ngamotu Beach in New Plymouth and greeted by 25,000 well-wishers.
You’ve got to be kidding! Where did all these people come from?
Above left: “Pieguts” enjoying his first meal back on land. Amazingly, after demolishing that mountain of meat, Justin went on to devour his mum’s and sister’s meals too.
Crossing the Ditch Page 27