‘Ooh,’ she said, riffling through her deck bag. ‘I think the postman might have been.’
‘The postman?’ asked Niki. ‘Out here?’
‘Oh yes,’ continued Janette. ‘He has the same magical powers as Father Christmas. There you are,’ she said as she handed out envelopes to the rest of us. ‘Happy Christmas!’
‘Before we set off I asked myself: when they’re really low what am I going to do on the boat?’ said Janette. ‘When something bad happens, how am I going to lift them up? So I sent an email to all the husbands’:
From: Janette Benaddi Sent: 11 September 2015 12:23
Subject: Something to start thinking about
Hi Mark and Gareth and Richard,
There’s something I would like your help with, please, and you may have even already thought about it. You are going to help us get across the ocean, in those dark hours – and there may be some. Hopefully not, but it’s always good to have contingency plans in place. I would like to take some surprise letters/notes with us on the boat from all of you and those who are close to the girls. When the going gets tough they can read a letter. We can do this any way you like – I can take all the letters and give them out when they really need them or, if you prefer, you can give them the letters. You know what will work best for your loved ones, so guide me on this. I think it might have more of an impact if there are some letters that are a complete surprise, if not all of them. You can always give them additional letters and leave some for surprises. I’m sure there are lots of things you want to send with them!
I have thought of a few situations when a bit of reassurance and a nice statement, phrase, letter from a loved one will really help. You could put their name on the envelope and also when they need to read it, for example:
Name – For when the shit hits the fan
Name – For when you hit rock bottom
Name – For when you are shit scared
Name – For when you’re missing us
Name – For when you want to get off the boat
Name – For when you want to give up
You may think of some others, too, and you may ask other family members to do some too. What goes in the letters is down to you. This is you supporting your loved one and getting them across to Antigua; you will know which phrase or words will do it. You might need time to think about it or you might instantly know what should be said. Either way it’s good to make a start soon if you can. If you prefer to do this a different way, that’s great too. I just want to be sure we have everything we can have on that boat to get us to Antigua.
Atlantic Campaigns do a short family guide. I will be nudging the girls to share it with you so look out for it – it’s quite helpful.
You lot are just as important as the crew in getting us there. If you want to talk to me at any time before we go to really fill me in on what you think will help, I can meet up with any of you before we go at any time. Also Atlantic Campaigns offer lots of support for families and friends. My job as skipper is to make sure we get across safely while enjoying the journey. I know that it’s all our jobs, too, and we are the best team I have ever had the opportunity to be part of, so we will get there. We may even win!!! Especially with your help and support.
Thanks so much. Let me know your thoughts and what you think will work best for you and yours, also if there is something (small and light!) you want me to take for Christmas Day I will sneak it on board, so get it to me before 24 October if possible so it can go with the boat.
Janette Benaddi
What Janette found fascinating was the different ways in which the three men responded to her request. ‘Helen’s husband, Richard, wrote just one letter, and got his son to write a letter, and his daughter and Helen’s mum to write a letter. They just had “Helen” on the outside. Mark, Frances’s husband, had followed the instructions to a tee. He gave me a bunch of envelopes, marked on the outside: for when the shit hits the fan; for when you’re missing your husband; for when you’re missing the children. He did exactly what I’d asked. Gareth just did loads of letters. Niki had the most letters. He did so many. Got the kids to do letters. Got them to do pictures. It was really organised. Janette’s family, of course, were not party to the Postman Plan – but
Janette did get a Christmas card from her family and a couple from some other close friends, and she did get a card from a friend of Niki and Frances who had written to all of us on the boat, which she also opened on Christmas Day. ‘Even though she didn’t know me, she’d done a letter for me,’ said Janette. ‘It was hilarious. She said, “I’m sure I met you at the tennis club in Poppleton.” I’m sat on the boat going, “I’ve never met her! Never played tennis at Poppleton in my life!” But it did cheer me up!’
Helen was quite sanguine about her small postbag. ‘I knew I had their support. I didn’t need to read it. I was perfectly fine with only getting one letter from Lucy, Henry, Richard and my mum. That was fine. Richard and I don’t have that kind of relationship. But Niki and Frances got amazing letters. And we voted Mark the most romantic husband on the boat.’
‘There is one letter,’ said Frances, ‘that’s absolutely lovely, where he says how proud he is and how it’s as if the Frances he met has come back from all the stresses of having children, of careers, and how I was back to the kind of person I was when I was in my late twenties’:
For Frances
Hello, sweetheart. By now you are thousands of miles away from me in the middle of a wild, wet desert. Just thinking about that makes me feel sick with worry for you and the other girls, but I know that doesn’t help anyone, so I’m going to put those thoughts aside.
You know I’m not prone to romantic cards, love letters or the like. However, there is a first time for everything, and I can’t think of a better situation to prompt me to write than this! When we first started dating, I thought you were a slightly crazy adventure chick, what with the diving, the paragliding, the mountaineering, the long-distance running, the holidays to exotic locations like Nepal. I remember thinking, ‘Boy, life with her is going to be out of the ordinary: just take a deep breath and hang on for the ride!’
Well, in many ways that has been the case, what with us getting married and having the boys within just a few years of getting together, and the fun we’ve had along the way. Everyday life does, however, have a habit of getting in the way of personal aspirations, challenges and dreams, and somewhere down the line you had to prioritise your career and being a loving mother to Jay and Jack… However, there is a time and season for everything, and I am equally proud of you for taking the decision to enter the Talisker race. The commitment you have shown on the back of that decision has been incredible: how anyone can do the job you do, then come home and train while being a mother to the boys and a wife to me is beyond me, although I always knew that if anyone could pull it off, you could. You have reconnected with the Frances I first met: the crazy have-a-go chick who sets her mind on something and goes for it, overcoming obstacles along the way and always adopting the ‘can-do’ mindset.
I know you have it in you to do this. However hard the race is, however bleak conditions may be, and whatever challenges it throws at you, know this: you are loved beyond words. I love you, I miss you, I am desperately proud of you, and I cannot wait to see you over that finish line. Stay safe.
All my love,
Mark
And for Niki it was all a little too much. Not only had Gareth written an emotional letter about how much he loved her and missed her, but he’d included photographs of the children and Christmas cards from her parents. And there was something else, too: a small parcel. Inside, in a plastic waterproof bag, she found the star she’d been frantically looking for the last night before she left. The star that Corby had made. The star that was always on the top of the family Christmas tree at home.
‘That’s where it was,’ smiled Niki as she started to cry, turning the battered tin-foil-covered piece of cardboard over and over again
in her hand. ‘No wonder I couldn’t find it.’ She sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
We all sat on the boat, in our Santa hats, a small rope of tinsel pinned around the door to each cabin, with most of us reading and rereading our letters (and Janette trying to recall her tennis-playing days), feeling extremely sorry for ourselves. It was not quite the morale-boosting exercise that Janette had planned.
Either we could all get back onto the oars and ignore the fact that it was Christmas or…
‘Let’s play some music,’ suggested Janette. ‘And crack open the mango gin!’
So we did. We had taken the mango gin (homemade by Rachel and Ruth – thank you) for emergencies, and this clearly was one. We rationed it to a very small glass, a thimbleful, each. It was delicious. Sweet and alcoholic, it slipped down a treat. Combined with The Best Christmas Album in the World… Ever, it was enough to put even Scrooge into the festive spirit! Slade. Wham! Wizard. Cliff. Bowie. Bing. And then ABBA – always ABBA. (How many times did we listen to Mamma Mia! on the ocean? So many times even the fish probably knew the words!) We sang like no one could hear us and danced like no one could see us – because they couldn’t. For the next hour and a half we laughed and crooned and warbled our hearts out. We also shared out a segment each of a Terry’s Chocolate Orange that Niki’s mum had sent us all. Never had anything tasted so delicious! It was divided up with great ceremony. One piece each. No more! Just one! To be sucked slowly on the tongue. The rest was to be saved for emergencies. It was, in the end, a Christmas that none of us will ever forget.
Boxing Day, however, was a different story. The wind picked up, as did the waves. The boat was listing and lurching all over the place. The antlers and festive specs were firmly stored in the hold and we were suddenly battling all the elements that the ocean could throw at us. It was pouring with rain and the tide was taking Rose in the wrong direction. Helen had been on the oars for two hours, rowing through heavy water, as thick as treacle, and was finally making her way to the bucket. She’d been desperate to go to the loo for the last hour and a half but she’d conscientiously held off until the end of her shift. But then, suddenly, as wave after wave pounded the boat, slamming into the side, Rose spun in the wrong direction and it looked as if she was about to roll or, at worst, capsize. Niki and Frances were battling at the oars, pulling hard to the right, and Janette was struggling at the helm.
‘Helen!’ she shouted. ‘You have to get back to your seat! We have to turn this boat around!’
‘I have just done two hours!’ Helen barked back, pulling down her salopettes. ‘I am not getting back on again.’
‘Get back on there!’
‘I need to wee.’
‘I don’t care!’
‘I need a wee.’
‘You’re not fucking weeing, you’re fucking rowing. Get back on your fucking seat!’ Janette went puce with fury.
‘I am WEEING!’ she yelled back. ‘And if you stop me I will piss all over this boat!’
‘You need to get back on your seat now!’ Janette shouted back. ‘And you need to fucking row!’
Eventually Helen did finish her wee and staggered back to the oars and together all of us managed to turn Rose around and avoid what was potentially a very great disaster. But relations between Helen and Janette were frosty to say the least. Neither of them spoke to each other for the rest of the day, which was difficult in such a small space, especially as Janette had scheduled herself to row with Helen for that week. But when it comes to pig-headedness, they are perhaps on a par. They are both naturally combative and neither is prone to apologies. So Helen doggedly wore her earphones, listening avidly to Michael McIntyre’s autobiography, Life and Laughing, on her iPod, while Janette stared fixedly at the horizon.
Finally, it was Janette who apologised. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I shouldn’t have sworn at you. I could have done that in a much better way. I don’t think you realised quite what danger we were in and I should have communicated that better. So I’ve been thinking about it, and when we’re in a situation that is difficult again, I am going to shout: “All hands on deck!” And then everyone drops everything, whatever they are doing, whatever time of day.’ Later, something occurred to Janette: ‘I think that was the moment the old lady clairvoyant saw in the caravan park when she said I’ll need to exert my authority right from the start so that I get everyone’s cooperation in times of real need.’
‘We learnt from that,’ said Helen. ‘I learnt I wouldn’t rebel again. Probably I should have explained that once I start rowing I never get off my seat for anything, and that I had just done two hours and I was desperate to pee and the rowing had been really tough. I am quite tough and if you cross me, I fight back. When I was on the oars I did what I needed to do: no eating, no drinking, just rowing, getting the job done. Everyone thinks I am a princess, but I’m not. And I don’t cry. Not that there is anything wrong with crying. But if you watch any of the YouTube videos of Ben Fogle and James Cracknell rowing the Atlantic, all they did was cry. They cried all the way across. Anyway, I thought, “I am not crying. At all.” So I didn’t.’
Our other problem, which was distinctly less sortable, was our increasing lack of power. It appeared that our little Christmas party – our hour and a half of singing and attempted dancing on a dramatically rocking dance floor, combined with the use of the autohelm while we were otherwise engaged – had seriously dented our batteries.
We’d spent hours with Charlie, when we first collected Rose, and then in La Gomera with Ben, learning how to maintain the batteries and keep them charged. They’d told us which systems were likely to use the most power. They warned us that if the battery charge dropped below a certain level, this would become an issue.
And it was a big problem. Once the batteries go below 12 volts, an alarm sounds very loudly and the monitor flashes ‘Ship Battery Low’ – the GPS, the autohelm and the watermaker need the batteries to be about 11 volts to work, otherwise they won’t function and the alarm just keeps on sounding. And once that happens it is very difficult to get anything to work. Anything. So the alarm sounded and our autohelm stopped working, which meant that one of us had to steer the boat and, worse, our water-pump stopped working too.
This was the sort of disaster that had ruined other crews in the past. All the water we needed now had to be pumped by hand. And when you factor in that you have to hand-pump for 45 minutes for one litre of water, you realise what a nightmare it is.
Each of us needed 4 litres a day. So the pump had to be in action for 45 minutes, 16 times a day. Which meant that during the day we would row for two hours and then pump for 45 minutes and then flop down in the cabin for an hour before coming back on the oars.
‘We just couldn’t get enough power to make the pump work,’ said Janette. ‘The GPS was the same, as was the autohelm. We had no way of charging our telephones or our iPods when they ran out. I kept the phone switched off so we could carry on speaking to Ben and the race organisers, otherwise we’d have no idea where we were or where we were supposed to be going.’
As Boxing Day wore on, things became worse. Janette and Helen were not really speaking and the rest of us were exhausted and furious with ourselves that such a small thing like having some fun and a singsong could have so impacted our journey.
‘The battery monitors were going down,’ said Frances, ‘so I sent Charlie a text to say that the battery monitors were showing really low. Should we ignore that because we’d tested the batteries and they seemed fine? Unfortunately for us, it turned out the battery monitors were not misreading. We had no power at all. I wanted to blame Charlie, but it was our fault.’
‘I knew we could still make it across the ocean without power, but it was a desperate situation to be in. What was already difficult, just became doubly more so,’ said Helen. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt so low in my life. I was miserable. This was really crap. Really crap indeed.’
So we spent the day eating, sleeping, pumping an
d rowing and going nowhere. It seemed like the ocean was punishing us for daring to enjoy ourselves. It was like it was trying to teach us a lesson. We’d not respected it. We’d been fooling around, dancing to ABBA and now we were going to pay.
It was early evening and the boat was being pushed back towards La Gomera, and no amount of us rowing was sending Rose in the right direction. So Janette rang Lee Fudge, who was one of the duty officers – on call 24/7 in case of emergencies – and he suggested we might put down our para-anchor, the giant parachute anchor that stops the boat from moving in any direction.
‘Everyone else has,’ he said. ‘You’re the last ones to still be going. The current and the wind are too strong. You may as well get the anchor out, otherwise you’re just killing yourselves going nowhere.’
‘So we put it down for the first time that night,’ said Frances. ‘It was the first time that the speed of the ocean had stopped and we were not moving.’
It was an odd feeling, being told we were allowed to stop. We dispatched the anchor and then just sat there, staring at each other. Not only was it very hard to get the thing out into the sea, with its complex combination of ropes and strings, but also it was an awful sensation, not going anywhere. It made us anxious and agitated, like we were wasting time. Hours. On a break. Being on para-anchor was a bit like being in a car park, where Rose was the only car and we were just sitting there in the middle of the ocean, bobbing up and down on the water. Except, of course, you don’t bob. You feel every single roll of the wave as it takes you up in the air and smashes you straight back down again. It’s like a very poorly balanced rollercoaster, and about as much fun.
‘We were better in the office cabin,’ said Frances. ‘Because that end was closer to the para-anchor, but the bedroom cabin did bounce quite a lot.’
So with nothing to do except ride out the current and the poor wind and rolling swells, we passed out. All of us. We were supposed to wake up at 4 a.m. in time to check on the boat and our position, but we all overslept. It wasn’t until Niki alerted us that the rest of us came crawling out of our hot, stuffy cabins at 4.30 a.m. We clearly all needed it, but Janette was not impressed and insisted that if we were ever on para-anchor again overnight then it was not an excuse to catch up on some kip; we should still keep watch as ‘anything could happen!’
Four Mums in a Boat Page 18