Four Mums in a Boat

by Janette Benaddi, Helen Butters, Niki Doeg

  But it was this bubble that saved us, the bubble that made us think of nothing else other than getting across the ocean. It was our focus and our security.

  And Manfred penetrated that bubble as soon as he jumped into the water. Yet none of us seemed to mind. In fact, we were delighted. Whatever we had been looking for out on the waves, we had surely found by now. Our time was up. We needed to come in.

  ‘So,’ said Manfred, swimming around Rose, ‘the idea is to film you cleaning the underside of the boat.’

  ‘Cleaning the boat?’ asked Janette.

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, taking a quick glance at Rose. ‘How many times have you done it?’

  We hadn’t. We hadn’t cleaned Rose once. It had been suggested to us that we clean the barnacles off the bottom, but frankly the waves had been so big and the current so strong that none of us had dared set foot off the boat. We hadn’t swum or been in the water at all during the nine-week crossing. We had been in the zone – the eat, sleep, row, repeat zone. We had admired the ocean, we had fallen deeply in love with it, but we had not immersed ourselves in it at all. Perhaps we’d been too busy trying to cross it.

  ‘You haven’t?’ Manfred looked surprised. ‘Row Like a Girl cleaned the bottom of their boat three times. It will increase your speed like you won’t believe. You’ll get to Antigua at least a day sooner.’

  So Frances and Niki attached themselves to long safety wires and hurled themselves over the side, with scrubbing brushes to scrape off the barnacles, limpets and seaweed that had attached to the underside of Rose. She was, frankly, filthy – an extraordinary amount of wildlife had hitched itself to our undercarriage for a free ride across the Atlantic.

  ‘This is fantastic!’ yelled Niki, splashing and diving in the water. ‘I can feel every single muscle in my body relaxing!’

  ‘Heaven!’ agreed Frances as she swam under the boat.

  ‘Why haven’t we done this before?’ asked Niki.

  ‘The sharks!’ shouted Janette from on board Rose.

  ‘We haven’t seen one of those for at least an hour!’ laughed Niki. ‘This is brilliant.’

  It was one of the highlights of the trip for Niki and Frances, like being a guest in a magical world – swimming in an aquarium, surrounded by curious little fish and larger dorados who were gratefully feeding off the loose barnacles they’d scratched and scraped off the bottom of the boat. It was a moment of relaxation and joy, feeling at one with nature and the environment, and they were also enjoying the company of Manfred. Not only did it feel fantastic to be in the water, there was something very special about sharing the experience with someone else, swimming alongside them.

  Niki climbed back onto the boat with all the elegance of those French gazelles, whereas Frances needed some assistance. Quite a lot of assistance. Fortunately, Janette was on hand to haul her in. Helen, meanwhile, cleverly filmed the whole magical, once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated experience, only to cover the entire screen with her fat finger! Go Helen!

  We had been told on numerous occasions by Ben and Carsten to clean under the boat.

  ‘It’ll make a difference,’ they’d said. ‘You should do it.’

  And what a difference!

  ‘We simply didn’t realise the impact it would have,’ said Helen. ‘Who knew a few barnacles could slow you down that much? But right then and there we doubled our knottage. Janette argues that at that time the wind had also changed and the currents moved, but as soon as Niki and Frances cleaned under the boat, got back on and Janette and I started rowing, it was an oh-my-God moment! We went from 2 to 4 knots at a stroke. Everybody could see that we were now going faster. Ian Couch, the safety officer, phoned up and asked, “Have you cleaned under your boat?” I said we had, and he said they could tell, as we were going so much faster. If we’d cleaned under our boat sooner, we would have quite simply got there a week earlier. It does make that much of a difference.’

  So as the sun set and we waved goodbye to Manfred and his crew, we turned up the ABBA, put Mamma Mia! on at full blast for the seventy-fifth time that trip and danced and sang as we rowed. Suddenly Rose was like a knife through butter. We could almost smell the land; we kept imagining the lights, the noise, the warm welcome in the harbour, the hugs from our families and friends. We did 58 miles in one day! Followed by 69. It was hard to believe the end was in sight.

  We started to talk about it, imagining it; we were counting down the miles now. Every mile we ticked off with a loud ‘Ker-ching!’

  ‘Fifty-five miles left!’ shouted Niki.

  ‘Do you think you’ll be emotional when you get there?’ Janette asked Frances.

  ‘Emotional?’ asked Frances. ‘I should say so. I am on the edge of crying all the time. I could conjure up a tear just thinking about it now.’

  ‘And you do realise that when we get there, we’ll hold a world record?’ asked Janette.

  ‘A world record,’ nodded Frances.

  ‘The oldest women to have ever rowed the Atlantic!’ declared Janette.

  ‘Ker-ching!’ came a shout from Niki on deck. ‘Fifty-four miles left.’

  ‘And we shall celebrate with rum and chocolate,’ said Janette.

  ‘Is there anything left of the mango gin?’ asked Helen.

  ‘I think we only have brandy,’ said Janette.

  ‘Brandy?’ asked Frances.

  ‘I was keeping it for emergencies.’

  ‘And we didn’t have any of those?’ asked Frances.

  ‘In the meantime,’ said Janette with a flourish, pulling something out from behind her back. ‘I give you… OLIVES!’

  The announcement of olives sent a frisson of excitement around the boat. We had eaten nothing that exotic or exciting for two and a half months. The closest any of us had got to a culinary experience was when Helen found a spare shepherd’s pie behind Niki’s snack-pack collection and had guzzled down the whole 1,000-calorie event in one sitting.

  ‘It actually said on the packet “to share”. I thought, “Sod that. A thousand calories? I could do with those.” It was delicious. I don’t think I have ever felt so full, so replete, in my life!’ said Helen.

  So we gathered on deck to ceremoniously open the tin of olives that Janette had thoughtfully bought in France and carried on board Rose for the enjoyment of her crew.

  ‘Ta-daaa!’ she announced as she pulled open the tin.

  It turns out that Janette’s French is as proficient as her pre-race workout.

  ‘Bugger!’ she said, looking inside the tin. ‘What the hell is that? Bloody mackerel?’ She sniffed. ‘Bloody mackerel in bloody olive oil! Bugger that!’ She put down the tin in disgust. ‘How are you supposed to know that from the sodding picture?’

  The rest of us were delighted. Mackerel? It tasted like ambrosia. It was oily and greasy and packed full of salty deliciousness. There were three slivers each, which we handed round with great ceremony. We each devoured our share, making ecstatic moaning sounds, as if we had never tasted anything so fantastic. Nine weeks of packaged meals must have taken their toll, as our bodies were clearly craving something. Vitamins. Omega-3. Oils. The fish almost made us high while we were eating it.

  Another thing our bodies were clearly craving was a shower or a wash of some description. We’d wet-wiped ourselves all the way across the Atlantic. We’d used wet wipes as toilet roll because toilet roll would never have lasted nine weeks on the sea without becoming a sodden, mushy mess, but now we were down to our last few wet wipes. So Janette made an executive skipper decision: we could crack open the grab bags. The grab bags are so-called as they are the bags that you ‘grab’ as the ship goes down. They are emergency pre-packed kits that are supposed to save your life as you float about in the Atlantic, waiting for help. They contain food, torches, rockets and, most importantly, fresh water.

  ‘We each had two sponges that we cut in half,’ said Helen. ‘We had a bucket and we had a tiny bit of shower gel and we stripped completely naked and shaved our l
egs and under arms and covered ourselves in shower gel. I don’t think I have ever felt so fantastic after a wash in my life. I remember thinking to myself, “Why haven’t I done this before?” If I did this race again, I would do a body wash once a week – I would – because it made me feel so much better. Although, I suppose, sometimes you’ve got to reach the nadir of filth in order to realise quite how nice it is to be clean.’

  Packed in small plastic bags labelled in German, the wasser hair wash was a game-changer.

  ‘The excitement was mounting,’ said Frances. ‘We were so focused on arriving that we didn’t even notice a massive cargo ship approaching us. It appeared out of nowhere. We, of course, immediately got onto the radio for a chat. Calling out to them, saying, “Rose, Rose, Rose…” attempting to make contact. But they ignored us, as if to say, “Go away, you needy old bags, talk among yourselves.”’

  Ker-ching!

  We were about 30 miles out when we suddenly saw what looked like a large cloud over the ocean. It was a distant white glow on the sea. A halo.

  ‘It was like the Resurrection; all it needed was a heavenly choir. None of us could understand what it was,’ said Janette. ‘And then Frances stared, narrowed her eyes and said, “That’s the light pollution coming from Antigua.”’

  It was like a mushroom of light floating above the sea. It was beautiful because it meant we had almost made it. We were nearly within sight of land. We were safe. If anything happened now, we could be rescued. But at the same time, as we all stopped rowing and stared, we realised where we had been, where we had come from. We had passed through one of the last pristine wildernesses on earth. During our journey, we’d seen nothing man-made – no plastic, no pollution, nothing. We had become totally at home, in tune with nature. Our skin was clear, our lungs had inhaled nothing but fresh air for months. And now it was about to be over.

  ‘It suddenly hit home,’ said Frances. ‘I felt very sad – I was overcome with sadness. After all this time and all this preparation, after all this great experience, these were our last few hours of rowing. These were our last few hours with Rose; I thought, “We’ll never get back in her on an ocean again. We’ll never row another ocean. This is the end of a really amazing time. The end of our dream.” I felt bereft.’

  ‘Even I felt really quite sad that it was ending,’ said Niki, ‘despite all my anxiety about getting there. It wasn’t just the journey; it was the whole thing. We’d been planning for so long and we’d done so many things together – so many exciting things – and we’d learnt so much. It was the feeling that this was going to be it.’

  We braced ourselves. And then Janette rang Ben for a weather report.

  ‘He said, “The weather is fantastic. If you carry on at the knots that you’re going at now, it’s going to get you in when it’s dark.” For the whole journey we’d been hoping and praying for the wind to keep going in the right direction, the tide to go in the right direction, and that’s all we wanted. And the moment we didn’t want it to happen, it bloody did. The wind was going in the right direction; the tide was right. We’d cleaned our boat and everything was good with us, and we didn’t want it to be. Ben said, “You really need to think about what you are doing. You really need to think about putting your anchor out and coming in when it’s light. It’s too dangerous.” I got off the phone and I looked at them all and I shook my head.’

  We all knew we shouldn’t enter an unfamiliar port at night. We’d done it once before on the North Sea and nearly rammed ourselves into the harbour wall. It was extremely dangerous. We had all read the port notes as well, in the almanac for English Harbour, which said that if you’re not familiar with the port, if you haven’t been there before, then don’t enter during the hours of darkness.

  We had to make a decision. We were approaching 20 miles out, and at that point you can’t change your mind; you have to tell the harbour master if you are on your way in, and inform ABSAR (Antigua and Barbuda Search and Rescue). We had a meeting, a conversation, where we all eventually agreed that we had to park up, put out the para-anchor for the very last night and sit it out. We were so near and yet still so far. It was an extremely counterintuitive move. Having rowed our hearts out for so long, having pushed ourselves to the limit, having emptied all our reserves, to suddenly have to moor up and spend another night, our last night, on the para-anchor was, for some of us, profoundly depressing.

  ‘I was furious,’ said Helen. ‘I couldn’t cope with much more. I just wanted to get there, really. I wanted to get off the boat. It was like waiting for Christmas Day. You know when you’re a child and you really can’t wait for Christmas morning? I was ready to burst. I had absolutely had enough.’

  ‘It was probably one of the favourite nights of my life,’ said Frances. ‘The night of waiting was just so full of expectation and anticipation. We knew great things were going to happen the following day and I didn’t want it to end. We were so used to our own company and it had just been enough. Now other things were about to encroach on our bubble. I was very happy to prolong that experience for one last night.’

  So we cracked open the last of our alcohol, which was tantamount to three sips of brandy each (from a small bottle very kindly provided by Sam, one of the grandfathers at our children’s school), and finished off the last of the emergency Mars bars and prepared to sit out the night. But the waves were huge and the current was very strong, and there was another race going on around us, which meant two of us had to be on deck on watch all the time. We had 60 feet of ropes hanging overboard and if any of the sailing boats came between us and the anchor, we would capsize. The irony of potentially coming so far only to lose Rose with 20 miles to go was not lost on us.

  ‘We were so stressed,’ said Helen. ‘It was such an uncomfortable night. We were getting bounced around and there was this sailing race going on, so we were on the VHF radio all night, trying to contact the boats and warn them about the anchor and all the ropes.

  ‘There was one point when I was on deck and there was a sailing boat that wouldn’t answer the radio, so we were on deck with our torches, shouting and waving, saying, “We’re here, we’re here and we’ve got a ruddy great anchor out!” We were flashing the torches. They did eventually alter their course, but they never responded to us at all.’

  Meanwhile, Janette was still in contact with Ben, who was following our progress. The sea that night was rough, with some strong currents and, despite our anchor being out, we were still being pulled towards Antigua. At about 3 a.m. we made the decision to retrieve the anchor and begin the final leg of the journey. Moments after Niki and Frances had pulled in the anchor, an enormous wave hit the boat and Janette, who was steering, watched in awe as our speed climbed for a brief but terrifying moment to over 14 knots. Thank goodness Janette was able to keep Rose’s nose facing into the wave. If that one wave had hit us on the side, our race could have ended very differently!

  All night long we could see the lights of Antigua as we kept to our two-hours-on, two-hours-off watch shift. We would still have to row tomorrow. It would not be a quick trip, as we still had another three to four hours of solid work at the oars to get us into English Harbour. Janette kept on insisting we rest and try to get some sleep. But none of us could; aside from the anticipation and the ever-circling yachts, we suddenly had a signal on our telephones. We had crossed the threshold; our toes were dipped into the pool of civilisation.

  We had kept a blog during the voyage – but it was very hard to write the entries and then get them transmitted over the airwaves. Janette and Niki had spent time in La Gomera learning how to use the special live mail system with data compression, designed for boats. The data was transmitted from Janette’s laptop, via the satellite phone, which had a dial-up connection like a really old modem, and transmissions could only be sent when the boat had enough power. It was a laborious process, according to Janette: ‘It would only send if the sat phone stayed connected, and if it didn’t stay connected you had to star
t all over again – very frustrating. It was a nightmare and took ages in the hot sweaty cabin.’

  Janette wrote the first entries, but eventually everybody added contributions. Not all of the transmissions got through immediately, though. One blog written by Frances on Christmas Day was delayed by the power problems on the boat, and was only sent in early February – by which time she’d had to rewrite some of it as the Christmas references were out of date.

  Now we were no longer off comms! Frances was the first to notice. ‘Suddenly all these text messages came flying in,’ she said. ‘We’d only had the satellite phone all the way across the Atlantic, and now all of a sudden all these messages of support that had been floating around in the ether for months landed! And we started reading them out to each other.’

  ‘They were so positive,’ said Niki. ‘It was very emotional. There were a few tears as we read what people had sent us. And then the Facebook messages came through and some of them were extraordinary. We simply could not stop crying as we read them out loud to each other.’