Crossing the Ditch Read online

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Andrew McAuley.

  Lost at sea, his spirit will live on forever.

  “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”

  THEODORE ROOSEVELT – 26TH US PRESIDENT (1901–09)

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Maps

  Foreword

  Preface

  1 Tears, Tigers and Meatball Sandwiches

  2 “The Murray River, You Doofus!”

  3 Corporate James/Weekend James

  4 “You’re Going to Kill Yourself”

  5 Stepping Stones

  6 Getting Ugly

  7 Wet, Cold, Scared…Alone

  8 The Joys of Seasickness

  9 See Ya, Australia!

  10 Nude Manoeuvres on the Hippy Trail

  11 Derek the Desal is Sick

  12 Rock and a Hard Place

  13 Headwinds – Just Deal With It

  14 Back to the Future

  15 Rain, More Rain, and A Pink Scrubbing Brush

  16 The Endless Night

  17 Shark Bait

  18 Aching Joints and Grumbling Stomachs

  19 Aotearoa Whispers – A Dandelion Floats By

  20 The Smell of Perfume

  21 Heading for the Chocolate Factory

  Photographic Insert

  Appendix

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Maps

  Foreword

  by Dick Smith Ao, Adventurer

  Imagine teaming up with a mate to paddle a small kayak more than 2,000 kilometres across one of the most dangerous seas in the world. You’ll be faced with 10-metre seas, gale force winds, exhaustion and the possibility of not coming back.

  Why would you ever do it?

  James Castrission gives us the answer in one of the greatest adventure stories of the decade.

  On 13 November 2007, James and Justin Jones left from Forster, NSW, hoping to become the first to paddle a sea kayak from Australia to New Zealand. On the shore were family and friends, some who were visibly distressed. Only nine months earlier Andrew McAuley, one of Australia’s most experienced sea kayakers, had attempted the same crossing and lost his life within sight of New Zealand.

  Like many other adventurers, I would have understood if James and Justin had cancelled their expedition. As a 20-year-old Rover Scout, I sailed across the Tasman to Lord Howe Island. Our goal was to attempt climbing Balls Pyramid, one of the world’s tallest sea spires. Although our voyage was only a third of the way to New Zealand seasickness plagued most of us, and after 72 hours all we wanted was to step onto land. After that I decided that oceanbased adventuring was not for me.

  In June 1993, I crossed the Tasman by balloon from New Zealand to Australia, skimming low over the waves and thankful not to be on the ocean surface. In 2006 I celebrated the 75th anniversary of the first solo flight across the Tasman by repeating Guy Menzies’ flight. I knew first-hand what a remote and lonely place the Tasman can be.

  When I first heard of James and Justin’s plans to “cross the ditch”, I had no doubt they’d chosen one of the last great adventures. In an age of guided Mount Everest climbs and tourist trips to the ocean floor, their proposal was a breath of fresh air.

  Like many others, they had met at school, enjoyed walking and climbing in the Blue Mountains and dreamed of greater challenges. What set them apart from their schoolmates was that they followed their dreams.

  The odds were against them from the start. When James came up with the idea to kayak the Tasman, he’d only spent one day on a yacht – he’d been 13 years old and seasick the whole time. Remarkably, Justin agreed to join him in the tiny sleeping cabin, despite suffering from claustrophobia.

  Their trip would be physically demanding, dangerous and the outcome uncertain – a perfect recipe for adventure. It reminded me why I started the journal Australian Geographic in late 1985, to encourage the spirit of adventure. I believed then, and still do, that without it, a nation will wilt and wither away.

  In the 1980s, the Australian media tended to criticise young people taking risks and extending their boundaries. Fortunately, things have changed. James and Justin drew more than 1.6 million visitors to their expedition website that featured daily reports and photos sent in via satellite phone. Major television and radio stations interviewed them, with no real criticism, and nearly everyone got behind their extraordinary endeavour.

  It’s not just the media that seems to have matured. The days of “planning an expedition on the back of an envelope” are gone forever. As you read this book, you’ll realise the incredible commitment James and Justin made to proper planning, teamwork and reducing the risk of what is, by its very nature, a dangerous undertaking.

  Over 18 months they searched out the experts to show them the latest technologies to reduce their risk, indeed make the trip possible. Having the best Global Positioning System and satellite phone was crucial, but as important were the high-nutrient freeze-dried foods and flameless heating pads for cooking. They couldn’t carry enough fresh water in their little kayak so they relied on an electric reverse osmosis desalinator. When it failed their trip might have ended but they’d thought to bring a hand-held desalinator as back-up.

  Of course they met the naysayers, the experts who said, “I think you’re flaming mad!” Some questioned why anyone would endure the amount of hardship they would face. They were considered selfish for the stress they would bring to loved ones. But then adventure is a very selfish pursuit. In his story, James doesn’t back away from the fact that it’s family and friends who often suffer greater distress than the adventurers themselves.

  In the end, after all the planning, discussions of risk profiles, equipment preparation and training, the success of their endeavour came down to one thing – their single-minded desire to succeed. It took them 1.7 million paddle strokes to “cross the ditch”, the longest-ever trans-oceanic, two-person kayaking trip in history.

  When a big storm hit, they battened down the hatches and rode it out while back home people stayed up all night, checking their progress on the expedition website. James never got over his seasickness nor Justin his claustrophobia. At times it must have been a nightmare.

  On day 27, a vast gyre of current pushed them backwards 150 kilometres, yet they refused to give up. They had planned on reaching New Zealand in 45 days at most – they arrived on day 62. Despite the hardships, James writes beautifully of the wonders they encountered as they felt themselves being drawn closer to the natural world around them.

  Kingsford Smith flew the first airplane across the Tasman in 1928 to be greeted by some 25,000 people. Nearly 80 years later, in an age when cynics would have us believe adventure is dead, an enthusiastic crowd just as large welcomed James and Justin to New Zealand’s shore.

  In 2008 James and Justin were awarded the Australian Geographic Young Adventurer of the Year Award. They represent a new generation of adventurers with an exciting future
exploring our deep oceans, dwindling icecaps and the limitless expanse of space. This book will give you clues as to what makes them tick.

  Preface

  It was day 36 out on the Tasman. Lying in a dreary, half-drowsy state in the cabin of our kayak Lot 41, trying to summon enough energy to wake properly and prepare dinner, a violent set of waves shook us hard. We were pulled through a two-storey wall of water, launched into the air, and spat out the other side. A piercing howl suddenly began reverberating in the cabin. Poking my head outside, I saw in the rapidly fading light that the bridle had wrapped around the rudder, with the full force of the anchor now on it. The seas were massive, with each wave battering the minuscule Lot 41 and constantly submerging us. The wind was intensifying. It was now dark.

  We sat petrified and examined the possibilities, quickly reducing our options to two: the first, to put on all our survival gear, alert our land team and Rescue Coordination Centres on both sides of the Tasman, then ride out the storm – hoping she’d hold up through the night.

  The second option was for one of us to swim to the back of the kayak and try to untangle the mess. With the force and speed we were being pulled through the face of these huge waves, this was insanely dangerous. The rudder was chomping up and down like the needle of a sewing machine. The thought of this coming down on top of one of us while struggling to untangle the mess in complete darkness was horrifying. We’d untangled the rudder three weeks earlier when the seas had been infinitely calmer. After that little playful jaunt, my lungs had been half full of water and I was near hypothermic: the confusion that darkness would have added and the aggressive intensity of the frothing cauldron would have made the operation border on suicidal.

  If one of us were to go back, it had to be me – there’s no way I’d have let my best mate go out there. Fortunately, Jonesy talked me out of it. We made the decision to wait till morning and sort it out when the seas had abated. The screeching continued. It sounded like our kayak was being tortured, like a wounded animal about to be put down. There was no escaping its terrifying howl.

  We didn’t know what was going to be the first failure point: would it be the rudder breaking off? The bridle breaking? Were the bridle and rudder built strongly enough that the first point of failure would mean the whole back of Lot 41 being ripped out? The uncertainty would be the hardest part of a torturous night.

  This was all a far cry from catching the 7.34am train – all stops from Hornsby on the North Shore line – during my days as an accountant. I remember one particular Monday morning commuting to work, when, staring down at my darkly tanned hands, blood was still seeping from cuts caused by shoving my paws in cracks, rock climbing in the Blue Mountains: it had been an incredible weekend.

  The conductor belted out “Next stop Central” and, as I looked up, the pallid, expressionless prisoners began to shuffle towards the carriage door. Their lifeless faces instantly struck a chord with me as I realised I was sitting in a train full of fellow inmates. Each person’s tie seemed to symbolise a noose. Of course, a prisoner is a person held captive against their will, but ironically, the only guards administering the years of hard labour were us, the prisoners.

  For a long time, I’d done all the things I was meant to do. I’d studied hard at school (well, in my final years at least), shuffled off to university and now I was working as an accountant in a “proper” career, earning a decent wage. I’d already begun to put on the mandatory 1.5 kilograms per year around my waist, and I could see my life unfolding: I’d be a manager in three years’ time, get married a couple of years after that, put a deposit on a house, have two children (maybe three, if I was really daring), mow the lawn every Saturday morning like clockwork and then retire at 65. I was dabbling with life; afraid to do what I wanted, yet too afraid to stop. But life had more to offer – I was sure of it.

  The 62-day journey by kayak across the Tasman that my best friend Justin Jones and I embarked on in November 2007 was frightening at times – sharks tore at our hull and 30-foot waves crashed over us, and one night we faced the terrifying possibility that the stern of our kayak might be ripped away; that the cabin might well become our coffin. But I’ve learnt that these fears – real fears – are never as debilitating as the fears of failure, rejection and regret.

  When Jonesy and I first thought of the Tasman expedition, the little kid inside me screamed, “Have a go, ya mug.” But that voice was fighting 15 years of institutionalisation, so what chance did he have? He’d been taught to silence that voice and do the adult thing. Sticking his neck out in life’s stampede meant risking violent decapitation. Who were we to take on the Tasman Sea? I guess one of the primary reasons that inspired us to become the first people to kayak across the Tasman was to conquer those fears.

  Adventurers throughout history have struggled to answer the question: why? There’s the famous quote by English mountaineer George Mallory – “Because it is there” – while the Australian Antarctic explorer Sir Douglas Mawson said, “If you have to ask the question, you will never understand the answer.” By writing this account of our struggle against the Tasman Sea, hopefully I’ll be able to give the reader (and maybe myself!) some insights into what motivated a couple of young Aussie blokes who knew nothing about a lot to take on one of the deadliest ocean passages in the world.

  1

  Tears, Tigers and Meatball Sandwiches

  Apparently, when you’re two years old, your bones are quite elastic – more like Kevlar than carbon fibre. It’s very rare for kids that age to break bones. I somehow succeeded.

  Almost from the day I was born, 14 March 1982, I always seemed to have too much energy. My parents had a rough time chasing me around and trying to protect me from myself. They did a pretty good job, though, until I decided it was time for my first BASE jump.

  Climbing my first peak – the kitchen bench-top – during a rare moment when my parents had turned their backs, I threw myself off, yelling, “Look at me – I’m Superman!” before thudding into the tiled kitchen floor and bursting into tears.

  So I found myself in my first cast – the first of many to come. I didn’t let it slow me down, though, and I continued to enjoy the newfound freedom of having just learnt to walk. These adventures resulted in me breaking my cast numerous times, and having to visit the hospital again. But instead of replacing the cast, they’d plaster the outside of it. Within a few months, the cast became too heavy for me to walk or crawl – I was anchored to the living-room floor like a convict attached to a lead ball.

  My first nautical experience was when I was five. We were on a family holiday up at Tweed Heads, on the New South Wales–Queensland border, enjoying a calm day at the beach. Chasing a ball that my four-year-old brother Clary had kicked past me, I tripped over a board with a paddle. I’d never seen anything like it before – it was a sit-on-top kayak.

  As Clary lost himself in making a sand castle, my interest had been aroused. What was that thing? Taking my sister Lil – who was three – back to have a look, I told her I was going to take her for a boat ride. I pulled the kayak into the water and got Lil to sit on the back while I jumped into the seat. My feet flailed horribly short of the rudder pedals as I began to use the two-bladed paddle to propel us out towards the Pacific Ocean.

  These were the first strokes I’d ever taken in a kayak…and I loved it. The movement seemed to come to me more easily than walking did. It was fast, fluid and felt so natural – almost like coasting down a big hill on a pushbike. Before long, we were a couple of hundred metres out to sea, with the noise from the people on the beach being lost in the wind. Lil started to get scared and began to cry. “Don’t worry – it’s all fine, sis,” I said in my most reassuring tone. “We’ll just go a little further.”

  Meanwhile, back on the beach, Mum was hysterical. She was jumping up and down, pleading for us to come back in (neither of us had a lifejacket on and Lil didn’t know how to swim). I could see Mum in the distance, but I honestly thought she was just wa
ving and saying hello.

  Before I could work out what was going on, two lifesavers on board rubber duckies zoomed out to us, knowing we couldn’t swim without floaties. Their gestures were smooth and controlled – it was as though they were approaching a bomb – as one of them said calmly, “Now put the paddle down – we’re going to pick you up.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I casually replied, “we’ll just paddle back.”

  But they were in no mood to argue, and we were swept up and dumped in the tinnie. The lectures started from the lifeguards about how dangerous our actions had been. I knew that meant I was dead meat when we got to shore.

  Mum went berserk. It took me quite a few years to understand why my first kayaking experience wasn’t applauded and encouraged by my mother.

  At school, I was different right from the start – but in a different way. Early in my first year, I realised what it was. I was sitting in the playground by myself at lunchtime, about to tuck into a sandwich Mum had packed for me, when a group of kids came up to me and started making faces. What had I done?

  I sat there as three boys towered above me, with a group of girls standing behind them, giggling. “What’s that you’re eating, wog boy?” they snarled.

  Not knowing what a wog boy was, I replied, “My name isn’t wog boy, it’s James, and I’m eating a keftethes and eggplant sandwich.” (Keftethes are essentially meatballs…with balls. They’re Greek, with plenty of garlic, onion and oregano, to give them a little kick.)

  The kids erupted into laughter, rolling on the pavement. It took them a few moments to gather themselves, and when they sat up they barked, “That hardly looks like food…and phew…it stinks.”

  They started scrunching their noses and dry heaving as though I’d just passed wind. Throwing a few more insults at me, they told me not to come near any of the other kids, then ran off laughing.