Crossing the Ditch Read online

  “A number of factors play havoc on seafarers, all contributing to her fierce reputation. Along the coast of Australia there is the EAC…”

  “Roger,” I interrupted, “I’ve heard of EAT – Ear and Throat – but never an EAC. What’s that?”

  He gave me the “Oh my God, are you serious” look again.

  “It’s the current that thunders down the coast of Australia, from near Cape York down to Sydney, where it does a right-hand turn and heads off towards New Zealand.”

  We sat blankly, staring at him.

  “Okay,” he sighed, “let’s take one step back. Have you seen the film Finding Nemo?”

  “Sure have,” we replied in unison.

  “Do you remember the part of the movie where Nemo’s dad is in a roaring current with turtles surfing all around him? You know that part where the turtles turn to him and say, ‘Cowabunga, dude!’”

  We finally had something to relate to. “Oh, that one.”

  “If we can get you guys in that current, it will greatly help your chances of getting across. As you reach the 160 degree latitude, the winds will mainly be coming from the west. The EAC is quite volatile and its position changes constantly depending on the time of year.

  “With current speeds of up to 5 knots, the EAC is a major current system, and its source is in the Coral Sea. It takes the form of a surface stream, tens of metres deep, that runs towards Australia along the boundary between the Coral and Tasman seas. The EAC follows contours of sea-surface elevation. The slope created between the different water masses gives strength to the current, meaning that the current is strongest at the edge…”

  Roger went on to explain – in great detail – about the currents the Tasman experienced and why. We were fascinated and hadn’t even grilled him about the winds yet. Eventually, Jonesy asked him if there was a consistent wind across the Tasman.

  “I guess there are three distinct systems,” he continued enthusiastically. “Generally in summer, the east coast of Australia experiences predominantly northerly to nor’easterly winds, where systems generally form on the hot dry air from inland, flow south over New South Wales, Victoria and Tasmania. These systems generally form on the western side of Tasman Sea highs.”

  Roger elaborated at length about “Southerly Busters” (extremely strong wind and heavy rain from the south), caused by shallow cold fronts moving up the coast from Victoria and Tasmania, the 11–16-knot winds usually experienced mid-Tasman, and the westerly winds that prevail across New Zealand as a whole, among countless other crucial pieces of information about the climatic conditions we could expect.

  Eventually, our eyelids started to droop – this was a heap of information to digest and it was getting late. As we said our goodbyes and thank yous, we got ready for the long drive back to Sydney for work in the morning, now only five hours away.

  Life became incredibly busy. We were both working full time, I was trying to get out climbing as much as possible and at night-time conducting research into each of the different topics we’d identified. If we could address each “risk” on paper, technically we should be able to cross the Tasman. The biggest issue we had to deal with was the constant barrage we were receiving from our families and trying to understand how our “careers” fit into life.

  My job seemed so unfulfilling, but I continued on with the accounting for two reasons: the first being that I hate not finishing something I’ve started; the second being the fear of failure. Climbing one weekend up in the Wolgan Valley – on the other side of the Blue Mountains, north of Lithgow – Dunc could see the turmoil bubbling inside and offered some advice: “Sometimes it’s better to put a book down halfway through than being stubborn and pursuing it all the way to the end.”

  How right he was – it was time to commit. The trigger was failing my Chartered Accountancy exam late in 2005. I hadn’t deserved to pass – all my energy was being channelled into crossing the Tasman and climbing. That failure was exactly what I needed to show me I was trying to fit too much into my life and that something had to give. If we were going to kayak to New Zealand it needed our full attention.

  As I wrote in my diary:

  To approach such an expedition part time, as we’ve been doing, is foolhardy and naïve. This beast must become our lives. To kayak 2200 kilometres across an ocean I have to be prepared to sacrifice everything. To organise the logistics, equipment, training, and sponsorship, we have to give this dream complete respect. If not, we fail – we die. Simple.

  We’ll be questioned by everyone we know – and don’t know for that matter – about our reason for pursuing this ideal. But as Mallory said: ‘What you get from adventure is just sheer joy. If you have to ask the question, you won’t understand the answer.’

  It was incredibly exhilarating to have finally, genuinely, committed myself. I knew we’d need to take 18 months off work to tackle the expedition properly, which, among other things, would mean a year-and-a-half without some of the creature comforts I’d begun to take for granted as a professional in the “real world”. I knew it was a sacrifice worth making:

  I woke this morning feeling alive. I’m pleased I’ve taken the step to turn off the highway blocked by traffic and I’m about to embrace a journey that’s going to be bumpy, less travelled and bloody exciting. Over the past three years I’ve complained about not having the drive or conviction to get out there and live. Well, here you go…Buckle up, buddy.

  We’d begun strategically telling close friends – those who were sympathetic to our passion – about our plans. It was important to form a core group of supporters around us who believed in what we were doing. Then it was time to tell my employer. In my mind I was committed – if they weren’t willing to accommodate me, I’d resign.

  Fearfully heading into work that Monday morning, I put it all on the line and told Margaret, one of the partners at the firm, about the expedition. As I put it in my diary, I was “nervous as shit”, but just explained the truth about how passionate I was about realising this dream. To my amazement, she said that more people at the company should dream big and that I had her full support. Even better, she said she’d hit the big boys at the firm up for sponsorship when we were ready. She said it was an inspiration to see a young man pursuing his dreams and wished she’d had the courage to do the same at my age.

  Most people think of multinational companies and employers as being completely unreasonable and only focused on making money and growing the business. But from my experience, when I explained my ambitions to the partners at my accounting firm, they were surprisingly supportive. I guess it might be as simple as the fact that when someone sees someone else going out on a limb, they usually want to be as encouraging as possible.

  Having committed everything to the Tasman, I was again starting to put pressure on myself to succeed. But from very early on, my approach was starkly different from Justin’s. We’d always approached life with different levels of vigour and commitment and, with so much now at stake, it soon began to strain our relationship.

  We’d often talked about it over the years, and we’d reasoned that his attitude stemmed from a combination of his comfortable upbringing and being able to rely on his natural ability, whereas others had to work harder at school and uni. Justin had grown up in what your average Aussie would call a palace. It was far from your quarter-acre block with a Hill’s Hoist and barbecue out the back. There were often up to 20 people living there – cooks, gardeners, maids and servants: the lot. He was also the youngest child, so his family always looked after him even more. From an early age, everything had been done for him. What did he need drive for?

  One particular Saturday early in our training, as I recorded in my diary, was a good example of the tension developing between us because of our different approaches:

  Jonesy really pissed me off. We were meant to meet for our weekly big paddle at 6am. He rocked up two-and-a-half hours late and paddled like an incompetent donkey all day. It turns out he worked at the bar
till 1am and then spent a few hours chatting up some chick. Where is his commitment and drive? I don’t think he understands the concept of this whole thing. We f*** up, we die.

  Normally, in other events in our lives, failure is a great opportunity to learn and move on – not with crossing the ditch.

  His continual lack of motivation is also starting to piss me off. I need to always tell him what to do, set deadlines for him, repeatedly follow him up on stuff. I want him to show some drive and go and organise stuff himself – it’s up to him to get rid of some of his fat [he was starting to pack on the pounds too] and set himself a ruthless training regime.

  That Saturday had been our first kayaking experience out at sea; not a great time for Justin to have stayed up most of the previous night:

  We paddled the closest that we have to NZ. We headed directly east from the heads for 45 minutes. Wow. To paddle out to sea, with land nowhere near, humbled us big-time. Definitely outside the comfort zone. On the way back there was 25 knots and quite a bit of swell that made life interesting. I was glad I didn’t get seasick.

  Jonesy was pathetic. He couldn’t keep his kayak up, nor paddle with enough drive to stay safe. He didn’t drink any water, he didn’t put suncream on. I can’t keep forcing him to look after himself. Mountaineering has taught me this stuff – even though you’re a team, you need to look after yourself. If you can’t look after yourself…what good are you to the team?

  Crossing the ditch is fitting in with the rest of his lifestyle. It needs to be the other way around. The rest of his life needs to fit in with this. I’ve sacrificed my career, stopped my Chartered Accountancy study, financial goals, going out on weekends etc. When is he going to show equal commitment?

  Unfortunately, that day wasn’t an isolated incident. Eight weeks after I quit work to commit myself full time to the expedition, I was beginning to get incredibly frustrated and even thought about abandoning the whole thing:

  Jonesy is showing no commitment/drive and I don’t really have anyone to turn to. No-one understands. Jonesy is the only person I can turn to in these situations, but he’s the root of the problem! Got this SMS from him on the weekend: ‘Hey, mate, just got your missed call. Am in the moshpit of my favourite band. Got a problem. My parents need me to pick up some shit. So kayaking tomorrow would be impossible to make.’

  This was after he spent the week prior pissing it up and dicking around with the footy heads at uni games in Queensland. There’s too much fat in his life taking away from crossing the ditch. If we’re to do this properly, that fat needs to melt. If the fat stays – he goes. Simple. I’m not going to compromise.

  I can’t keep nagging him like I am and driving the momentum continually. I’m over feeling angry and disappointed with him. I’ve lost my trust and faith in him. If his heart isn’t in it, it’s time to jettison the burden of having Jonesy along. Do I run with this myself or do I lay crossing the ditch to rest? I don’t think I’m ready to tackle the Tasman by myself.

  At the height of my frustration, a friend, Gordo, offered some great advice. He said that in life, there are leaders and followers, and that I was a leader and Jonesy was a follower. I needed to accept that. Another interesting point he made was that even if I were to put in 80 per cent of the work and effort to cross the Tasman, without Jonesy’s 20 per cent neither of us would get there. His 20 per cent contribution was critical for the expedition to be successful.

  Gordo was right, but with the pressures our difference in attitude was causing, I knew we needed to cement our commitment to the expedition. I came up with the idea of a “contract”, prioritising crossing the ditch as our absolute focus. For the next three years it would be the first thing we’d look at when we woke and the last thing we saw when we went to bed.

  Jonesy was slowly starting to evolve and commit to the Tasman. He began getting stuff done – like contacting prospective sponsors and developing our website – and training harder and more regularly. For me, though, this evolution was never going to be fast enough. Why couldn’t he change in a click of the fingers?

  By now, our blueprint for the Tasman expedition had been completed. We’d answered all the questions we’d asked ourselves and addressed every issue that needed addressing. It was time for us to get some feedback on our methodology and risk mitigation strategies from professionals.

  We sent the document to numerous sailors, our weather forecaster Roger Badham, and to a fellow kayaker, Andrew McAuley. We didn’t know Andrew personally, but we looked at him in awe and admiration for his kayaking feats – including the first direct crossing of Bass Strait, as well as the Gulf of Carpentaria. He was the most active kayaker in Australia at the time, setting new benchmarks in sea kayaking. We felt his input would be invaluable.

  Within a couple of weeks, though, we received two phone calls from people whose numbers were in the document, alerting us to the fact that someone else was planning to cross the Tasman. It seemed that Andrew, whose own Tasman plans had been on ice for some time, was suddenly putting his own expedition together. And he had eight months’ worth of our research to help him on his way.

  He’d provided us with advice and support regarding skin issues he’d faced and seating arrangements, yet he hadn’t told us of his own ambitions. And while we’d been quite open about our plans with various experts and consultants, he’d told Roger that his expedition was “highly confidential and top secret – no-one must know”. I felt disappointed and betrayed. Had we been naïve? Why hadn’t Andrew been honest with us?

  In late-November 2005, a couple of weeks after we’d found out about Andrew’s plans, we met with him for a coffee down at Circular Quay. He seemed stunned that we knew what he’d been doing and was immediately apologetic about having used our risk management document. He added that crossing the ditch had always been a dream of his, as he saw it as the last in a series of three crossings – Bass Strait and the Gulf of Carpentaria being the other two – that he’d be the first to do.

  Andrew revealed to us that when he’d found out about our plans to cross the Tasman, he hadn’t slept for three nights. Crossing the ditch was something Andrew had always dreamt of doing. We could see in his eyes the turmoil this had caused him. Who were these two young schmucks about to take what was rightfully his? Compared to his achievements we’d done nothing – he was much more qualified. The two advantages we had over him were (a) that there were two of us, and (b) our extensive risk-management work. Andrew had one of these and was putting it to good use, and his experience more than made up for the other one.

  Our kayaking skills were progressing well – we were beginning to spend more and more time out at sea and we’d finally learnt to Eskimo roll, although with my gut regularly playing unpleasant games, I’d started to sense that I was in for a long road dealing with the motion of the ocean.

  We’d put most of our risk-management work together and we were now in the process of designing a kayak around the vital equipment we’d identified in the research. All we needed was a proper design and cash to fund this little exercise.

  Initially, the funding of the kayak didn’t seem to worry us – we knew (or we thought we knew) we’d get there somehow. It was this youthful naivety that saw us attempting the crossing in the first place. For some reason, the thought of two mid twenty year olds raising $250–300,000 for a paddling expedition was low on our worry list.

  About this time, we became aware of the UK paddler Peter Bray, who in 2001 had successfully kayaked across the North Atlantic unsupported. We bought his book, Kayak across the Atlantic, and found the yacht designer/surveyor – Rob Feloy – behind his kayak design. We got in contact with Rob and he was immediately interested in the project. We started tossing ideas back and forth, and before long we had a rough 3D CAD design – sexy software that engineers use to draw things like kayaks in 3D – of what was to become our boat. We designed the boat with the Tasman specifically in mind. Studying the data we’d punched with Roger, we identified that 60–70 p
er cent of the wind should come from the west, so we built the cabin based on that assumption, and weren’t too concerned about its relatively large size (but as we’d discover, assumptions can be dangerous). With projects such as this, it was crucial to form a group of people around us who were excited by the project right from the start. The remuneration was always going to be barely adequate: they had to be doing it for other altruistic reasons.

  Further good news came when we received an email from Andrew a couple of weeks after our meeting, saying that he’d been “premature in approaching the Tasman” and that he didn’t have time to prepare for the crossing. It definitely wasn’t going to happen in 2006, he wrote, and added that April 2007 was a more likely date, although it wasn’t definite. The Tasman was all ours!

  This news came as a huge relief as we were starting to put our sponsorship proposal together, and obviously the thought of someone else doing the crossing before us would have taken away much of the appeal for prospective investors.

  Among the main aspects of our sponsorship strategy was the visual side of things, and a friend of ours, Ben Barin, played a key role for us. One of the first people in the “core” group of supporters we informed about our plans to cross the Tasman, right from the start he was passionate about the idea and threw in his support, designing a website for us, as well as branding and business cards.