Crossing the Ditch Page 14

  Typically, though, at this time of day I’d prefer not to talk, but listen. Some days I’d focus on the waves, the wind and the paddle blades dipping into the Tasman; other days I’d put on my favourite iPod playlists, featuring kd lang, James Taylor and Cat Stevens.

  My ultimate songs to finish off a day’s paddle were hidden in my “Tasman Top” playlist. This included the likes of “My Heart Will Go On”, the theme song from Titanic, “Then I Kissed Her” by the Beach Boys, Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl”, “Heaven” by DJ Sammy, “Desperado” by The Eagles, a bit of the old Frank Sinatra, the theme song from Legends of the Fall and “The Gambler” by Kenny Rogers. Never let it be said that I’m not at the cutting edge of popular music.

  When camping, I’ve often got agitated at the time it takes Jonesy to pack his gear up. At the end of the day on the Tasman, I’d patiently wait in my pit while J washed and got into the cabin. This ritual became part of “Cas’s special time” and I’d enjoy these moments immensely. Most nights, I’d use this time to do a video diary, concluding that evening matter-of-factly: “All going well…we should get to NZ in less than a month now.”

  While I was talking to the camera, we’d do a five-minute drift test, where we’d let the kayak drift with the wind and waves to see which way she naturally wanted to go. There were two things we were trying to establish: the first was whether we could suck any additional mileage out of the wind without the para-anchor deployed; the second was to see if we could get away with not deploying the anchor. As we then wouldn’t have to spend time retrieving it, this would generally mean a smoother night’s sleep and give us an extra 15 minutes’ paddling in the morning.

  Although this seems insignificant, we quickly learnt that it was the little things that made all the difference. An extra 15 minutes paddling each day – if extrapolated out to 62 days – would save us 15 hours over the entirety of the expedition: the equivalent to two days. Similarly, we identified the importance of one person paddling during the five-minute break we’d take every hour. This would reduce our time at sea by a whopping 60 hours (five days) over the entire trip!

  After I’d done the usual daily video diary, Jonesy would make his way into the cabin and begin preparing the dehydrated evening meals, while I moved the dry bags – waterproof bags that contained our first-aid kit, flameless ration heaters, repair kits and extra food – from the cabin into each pit, strapping them down, then putting a cockpit cover over the top.

  Meanwhile, Justin would reach down the sides of the cabin, where we’d stored most of our food, and pull out a cryo-vacked meal pack. Before leaving Forster, we’d painstakingly removed every meal from its original packaging and sealed them in airtight plastic bags. This reduced the size and weight of the rations and stopped cross-contamination of foods.

  It was a complete lucky dip what he’d grab. There was no double dipping allowed; what was plucked was what we had to eat.

  Day 7 ended on a high note. That evening Pat revealed that we’d had over 50,000 unique visitors to our website and that both the Sydney Morning Herald and the Melbourne Age online had us as their feature story for the day.

  DAY 8

  Lot 41 was designed to have two independent electrical systems. If one went down, we had the other as back-up. As part of our routine, we’d rotate the use of the batteries each day so as not to bleed one system down in its entirety. We quickly realised on day 8 that no power was being distributed from the “aft battery”.

  “Shit,” Jonesy mumbled.

  We knew it had to be a loose connection – but where? There were over 5 kilometres of wiring through Lot 41. Prior to us leaving we’d done a series of troubleshooting days with our electrical engineer Craig Thomsen. He’d dive inside the cabin and break something on purpose. Our mission was to identify the problem and fix it with the tools we’d have out on the Tasman. Using the problem-solving methodology Craig had instilled into us during these exercises, we quickly got to work.

  We needed to sort the problem out quickly, because our tracking was down and Pat would be getting anxious. Pulling out the multimeter, we started testing the power distribution box and feverishly worked backwards to the battery. Bingo! One of the battery terminals had corroded – despite our having lined the terminal with Vaseline, the salt water had penetrated it.

  The weather forecast we’d received the previous night appeared nasty. Nevertheless, after we fixed the battery into the pits, we got out and did some paddling, as it didn’t look too bad outside. Although we’d pushed ourselves quite hard the past week, this was the first time on the expedition that we had an adverse wind and current – a taste of things to come. We fought into a brisk easterly for six hours, making a mere 13 kilometres.

  We’d now been out for over a week and felt like we were flogging a dead horse. A five-minute drift test quickly revealed that we were gliding northwest at 4 kilometres per hour. We’d decided prior to leaving that, in these situations, we’d chuck out the para-anchor and get some rest. So we did. We spent the afternoon dozing and watching Transformers on the Toughbook computer.

  We quickly learnt Lot 41 would drift with the current, regardless of what the wind was doing. It was blowing from the northeast quadrant at 20 knots, with an underlying current pulling in the opposite direction. The result: an obnoxiously violent sea state. Steep sharp waves were created by this wind-against-current scenario. The one saving grace was that we were still moving towards NZ. Sleep was non-existent that night – between us we managed to capture about 40 minutes. Waves constantly buffeted the kayak, causing the cabin to be pulled through the face of the larger ones. Adding to our woes, Justin’s prickly heat was close to unbearable as he slapped his body through the night; although rubbing water bladders (we had 50 litres of reserve fresh water on board, stored in 8-litre bags) over his body seemed to provide temporary relief.

  DAY 9

  The condensation in the cabin made us incredibly uncomfortable, and our Tasman tormentor relished the opportunity to play the “How far open do you leave the door” game. Every minute it was ajar was a short-lived victory to J & J – we revelled in the fresh air flow. But just as I’d be drifting off to sleep, a wave would either crash over the top or a rogue would jump through from the opposite direction, soaking my whole side of the cabin.

  We named the different types of waves that entered the cabin of Lot 41. First there was the “freak of nature”. This was a wave that came from 180 degrees from the prevailing conditions. How, you may ask. Funny you should say that – it’s the same question that had us baffled the entire voyage! Next up was the “little bastard”. These guys stealthily crept up on us from an angle closer to 90 degrees. They were quite clever, really – they often had the uncanny ability to leap through any open porthole or tiniest opening of the cabin door completely silently. Finally there was the “bombora”. These were the waves that engulfed the whole kayak and if there was any ventilation hole, cabin door or porthole open, water would rush in.

  Lot 41 was designed to be watertight (with a couple of vents built in under the solar panels) but not a submarine. Obviously, we needed to leave something open to allow fresh air into the cabin: there was a very real risk that if we’d had everything closed we could suffocate, much the same as people in snow caves without ventilation. The carbon monoxide and dioxide can build up and the victims can drift off to sleep forever without being aware of what’s happening.

  The first thing these waves would hit when they entered the cabin was my face, followed closely by the “pillow” I had my head on. This was a washing bag filled with polystyrene beans. Its primary purpose was to be a spare beanbag seat which we sat on while paddling, but it also provided a wonderful pillow to rest our noggins on.

  Unfortunately, the bags were also used to kneel on when we had to hang a pee out of the cabin – a mixture of urine and saliva was splattered on them throughout the trip. That smell infuriated me at times but, oddly, also transported me to the big walls of Yosemite Valley, wher
e the ever-pungent urine aroma floods the bivies on the walls.

  We’d now been out for over a week, and although we’d had some massive days, our progress had been phenomenal and we’d already started playing the dangerous game – what day would we arrive in New Zealand?

  11

  Derek The Desal Is Sick

  Apart from crossing the Tasman safely, one of our other major goals was to share this adventure with as many people as possible. Technology made this possible. When we’d first left school and gone for bushwalks with a Kodak instant camera, we’d try to capture what it was like out in the bush or in the water, but the photos never did the scenery or the experience justice. Podcasts and the ability to send photos back from the ditch worked so much better, as anyone could live our highs and our lows in real time.

  On the Tasman, a community formed in which people adopted me and Justin almost as their own children, many seeming to log on religiously to check our progress. Some stayed up all night staring at their computer screens when we were doing it tough, others posted encouragement multiple times per day.

  They could hear the fear in our voices when we were scared, when we tried to sound upbeat, when we really wanted to be anywhere else on earth apart from that kayak – the truth pierced through our voices. On our return, we learnt that a lot of people took more from our tone than our actual words.

  Podcasts were incredibly effective in communicating our message and bloody simple to set up. From our end, all it required was for us to call on the satellite phone to a number that went through to a voicemail. Pat would then upload this straight to the website. The online forum allowed people to communicate both with us and other forumites. The constant encouragement and positive energy sent through to Justin and me was fantastic. We’d never met Ol Oiler, PhDuck, Bern and CathyM – these were their forum names – but the stories they posted gave us glimpses of their lives. Through our podcasts and actions, these people were able to develop a connection with us, and us with them.

  DAY 10

  Waking on the morning of day 10, I felt sick. Out on the Tasman, however, “seasick” was a word we were forbidden from using – it carried too much baggage. We’d been held captive in the cabin for the previous 42 hours. The sea was angry and we just couldn’t get out and paddle. The lack of sleep, insufficient hydration and not being able to stand up had resulted in us both having throbbing headaches. We referred to it as “cabin-skull-crushing syndrome”, caused by lying down for extended periods of time.

  Above my head, I had my favourite photos of family and friends and my eyes focused on a small image, no bigger than a beer coaster, of me and Dunc, high up El Capitan in Yosemite Valley. It removed me for a brief moment in between squalls that continued to batter us all morning. We were both beginning to feel weak.

  Finally, on day 10, the Tasman gave us a break: a chance to get out paddling again. Justin, Lot 41 and I were a three-man team out there, but while Jonesy was doing great and Lot 41 was dancing along, I was struggling. My constant cabin sickness was beginning to play games with my head. A spiral was forming: first came the feeling of queasiness, which, combined with a couple of spoonfuls of fatigue and being on half rations in the cabin when we weren’t paddling, resulted in my mind constantly generating negative thoughts. That would ensure that I arrived back at my starting point of feeling seedy.

  As I’ve mentioned, I’d equipped myself with a number of weapons to combat the seasickness. Through the mentoring of a hypnotherapist and listening to meditation tapes, I’d slowly begun to learn how to allow my mind to drift to another state. The first thing I’d do each night when I returned to the cabin was put on a half-hour tape. This ritual trained my mind to see the cabin as a happy place rather than a den of torture. I eagerly looked forward to that 30 minutes of escapism. My favourite tape was the special Wolgan Valley one my hypnotherapist had constructed for me, followed closely by “Soar Like an Eagle”. In this one, I glided effortlessly through the sky like an eagle. Way cool.

  The Wolgan tape started with some breathing excercises, then painted a canvas of vivid images from the most special place on the planet, where I’d spent those fantastic weekends climbing with Dunc – from the vibrant orange sandstone cliffs to the fire trail meandering its way through the valley floor. These tapes extracted me from the harsh realities on board Lot 41, and let the pleasure of being in the Australian bush flow through my body. There were times I reached a level of clarity where all my senses had left the boat and drifted into the Wolgan. I could smell the gumtrees and hear the bellbirds sing above the fresh flowing water of the creek: it became real. Often I felt like an astronaut re-entering the earth’s atmosphere as I came out of the trance. Adjusting to the reality of being on board a kayak was a shock, like waking up from a dream. However, I’d always “reboard” Lot 41 calmer than when I’d left.

  This half-hour quiet time reminded me of when I used to get home from “proper” work. When I worked as an accountant, I’d crash on the couch for half an hour, hypnotically staring at the TV until I mustered sufficient energy to go and make dinner or get my gym clothes on.

  It wasn’t the only reminder of the good old days at the office. We now thought of ourselves as mavericks and adventurers, but funnily enough, here we were with a uniform, regimented hours and an unpredictable, temperamental boss – except this one would kill us if we didn’t follow instructions.

  There was no work/life balance, we could only dream about sick pay and RDOs, and we were on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week: public holidays no exception. I’m sure the ACTU would have taken some class action on our behalf if they’d been in contact!

  DAY 11

  For the first 10 days of our voyage, our water maker – we named it Derek the Desal – had been working tirelessly, delivering 10 litres of desalinated fresh water each day. With only 50 litres of emergency water stored on board Lot 41, we needed to produce fresh water daily for drinking, rehydrating our Back Country dehydrated meals and for washing.

  Prior to leaving, we’d never paid too much attention to the amount of water we actually use in day-to-day life in the city, but stats tell us the daily average is approximately 340 litres per person! In order to consume a measly 5 litres per person each day we had to take stringent measures to make sure we didn’t dip into our emergency supply. We often chuckled at the humour of having a stingy 200 millilitres of water to bathe each night. “That’s not a bath, it’s a mouthful” was our running gag.

  The most vital piece of equipment on Lot 41 was therefore the water maker. It was by far the most energy-sucking gizmo we had on board: solar panels on the back of the cabin fed energy down to three 70-amp-hour car batteries in the bottom of the kayak, primarily to fuel Derek, who normally produced a nice murmur while he pumped. All of a sudden, he stuttered a little and started drawing more milliamps. Justin looked in the cabin, but couldn’t see anything unusual. It appeared Derek was sick.

  Merrily cruising along on day 11, we began chatting about bushwalks we’d done together. The fun came in scratching our heads to remember the intricate details – the best food on a particular walk, the name of that ridge or spur.

  The details we extracted from the recesses of our minds amazed us, and we laughed about the 50-kilogram packs we’d shouldered as we walked around Fraser Island when we’d just turned 18. On that walk, we had all our fishing gear (including 3 kilograms of lead sinkers!), a grill to cook sausages and fish, jaffle iron…the list went on. For some reason we had a full roll of cling-wrap with us. To this day, we haven’t been able to figure out why!

  As we mulled over the cling-wrap issue, Jonesy accidentally knocked his hat off his spray skirt as he was putting suncream on his face, and sent it flying into the sea. Sure, we had a spare one on board, but hats seem to be one of those possessions you grow really fond of. We quickly back-paddled and found it floating on the water’s surface like a jellyfish or plastic bag. Scooping it up, we continued to paddle and chat. (Hats aside, we’d gone
to great lengths to make sure all items on board were either tethered to the kayak or us. That included all the cameras, GPS, notebooks, sunnies…and of course ourselves.)

  Any change we could muster in our daily routine – any change at all – had us giggling with glee. Food was one aspect of the journey that we’d carefully planned and considered. On the one hand, it was intricately scientific, ensuring we’d be consuming an adequate number of calories and micro and macro-nutrients; on the other, food in any extreme environment plays a significant role in terms of morale. Therefore we wanted food that not only served the dietary requirements we’d carefully laid out, but also tasted great.

  Our 100 food packets were carefully cryo-vacked and stored throughout Lot 41. Each day’s rations weighed 1.5 kilograms and included 6000 calories – approximately the same caloric intake as 15 Big Macs. We had a vast number of different dehydrated meals, and quickly established that our favourites were roast chicken, spaghetti bolognese and chicken babotjie.

  A whole week had drifted by with no roast chicken and we were beginning to get worried. Finally, on day 11, a roast chicken was discovered, accompanied by our arch-nemesis – Thai green curry. But as we cooked the meals up on our dwindling supply of fresh water, there was something amiss with the chicken.

  We cooked it up regardless. There were no flames on board Lot 41 – the risks were too great. “Cooking” involved dumping a flameless heating pad into a small bucket, then adding 100 millilitres of salt water. We’d place our meals in a foil bag then allow them to heat up in the bucket. When the salt water infused with the pad, it created an exothermic reaction – providing the same amount of heat as if we’d put the meal in a microwave for 40 seconds.