by Roz Savage
I did my best to get rid of my uninvited guests. The Rozlings, as my faithful band of Internet followers had named themselves, offered helpful suggestions: tie some shiny Lärabar wrappers to the boat to scare the birds away, try throwing a bucketful of water over them, and so on. These suggestions were well meant, but were made with no idea of the sheer tenacity of my feathered foes.
Other people posted comments on my blog to the effect that it was the boobies’ ocean more than mine, and if I chose to intrude on their environment then I had no right to complain about their presence. This was a valid point. I absolutely acknowledge that all creatures have their role and their place and their rights to freedom of action. But it wasn’t really their presence I was complaining about—it was their unhygienic personal habits. They had an entire ocean to poop in, so why did they have to do it on my boat? They could go anywhere they wanted, while I was confined to this small boat of 23 feet by 6 feet, a sitting target.
I started off being terribly British and polite, flapping my hands at them and saying, “Shoo, shoo.” This had precisely no effect. They just squawked at me, shuffled their feet a bit more, and stayed put. Their vacant yellow eyes registered no emotion, apart from possibly a slight indignation that I had tried to shoo them off their boat.
I decided to set up a booby trap, to use a particularly apposite term. I lassoed the cleat on the far end of the cabin roof and rigged up a network of strings a few inches above the surface. The idea was that they wouldn’t be able to find enough space to stand between the strings. But the distance from cleat to cockpit was too great, and the strings sagged. The birds simply stood on top of them. The experiment was mostly a failure, although I did get some malevolent satisfaction from time to time by jerking on the strings beneath their feet. For some reason the boobies never associated this phenomenon with me, but assumed it was one of the other birds jerking their chain and so squawked belligerently at their fellow freeloaders. I found my petty revenge a fine form of entertainment.
As my desperation grew, I would take my red dustpan and shove the birds bodily off the cabin roof. Sometimes I would give them a few brisk bangs on the beak as well, more to vent my boiling frustration than because I thought it would make any difference. They would squawk and flap their wings comically as they slithered off the curved roof into the water, then bob there for a moment, folding their wings while regaining their composure. Then they would take off, fly in a big circle, and come straight back again, as if nothing had happened.
They were absolutely incorrigible. I would have thought that almost any creature could be trained, that they would get the not-so-subtle hint that they were not welcome, that they would get bored of being shoveled off into the sea. But no, they were happy to play this game forever. It would drive me crazy before it had any effect whatsoever on them.
Ultimately, I had no option but to give in. They clearly weren’t going to change their attitude, so I would have to change mine. I cranked up the volume on my iPod to drown them out and did my best to ignore the appalling smell. Not long after I had philosophically resigned myself to my fate, about three weeks after their arrival, the birds departed—and pathetic though it is to confess, I rather missed them.
ALMOST AS MESSY, BUT NOT AS PROLONGED, was my encounter with the low-flying squid. I hadn’t known that squid could fly, but one day I was rowing along, minding my own business. Suddenly three missiles shot out of the water and thudded to the deck. I nearly jumped out of my rowing shoes in fright. It took me a moment to realize what my marine assailants were: Three squid, no doubt trying to escape from a predator underwater, had taken drastic evasive action by launching themselves into the air. They must have been at least as surprised—and put out—as I was when they found a small ocean rowboat in their way.
The one squid that had landed at my feet was rather pretty. It glowed in shades of pink and mauve, but as I watched, still trying to gather my wits, the iridescence subsided and I realized the poor little thing had died.
The squid that had collided with the bulkhead of the forward cabin was looking less attractive. As it had exited the water, it had evidently been trying to confuse the predator by emitting a cloud of ink, and as it slowly peeled away from the bulkhead and flopped flaccidly to the deck, it left a messy trail of dense, black liquid.
The third squid I didn’t find until some days later, slowly decomposing behind the sea anchor.
Being rather squeamish about slimy creatures of the deep, I took out my trusty dustpan and deposited the sad little corpses back into the ocean. Some people have since asked me why I didn’t fry them up for my supper. I tend to blame it on my lack of a suitable cooking vessel (I only had a kettle, not a pan), but the truth is that the little pink creatures, about six inches long, made me think not so much of dinner as of John Wayne Bobbitt.
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CREATURE I have ever seen at sea, although it had a face only its mother could love, was the whale shark.
It was early on a Sunday morning, and the sea anchor had been out overnight to counteract a headwind. It was almost time for me to make my regular weekly call to Mum, but as I was out on deck performing my morning ablutions, I noticed that the wind had changed. I called my mother.
“Mum, it’s me. I’ll call you back in about half an hour. I just need to bring in the sea anchor.”
It was actually closer to an hour before I rang back, during which time my mother probably feared that I’d had a tug of war with the sea anchor and lost. When her phone finally rang, the first words she heard were: “Mum, can you do a quick Google and tell me what a whale shark looks like?” I was fairly certain this was what I’d seen, but I needed to make sure.
Mum quickly found a photo on the internet, and described it to me. “It’s got a very big mouth that seems to take up most of its head. It’s got a dark grey skin with pretty white markings. And it can grow to up to 30 feet. Why, have you seen one?”
“Yes, yes, I have! That’s why I’m so late calling back. When I pulled the sea anchor in, I got it alongside the boat, and when I looked down into the water I saw this big creature. It has just spent the last 20 minutes cruising around my boat, and I was busy shooting video. It was gorgeous!”
Well, gorgeous might be a bit of an exaggeration. The whale shark is a strange-looking creature. A vegetarian shark, it feeds on plankton, so it has the large, gaping mouth of a filter feeder. Looking at it head-on, its face is mostly mouth with just a little rim of head around it. Its main redeeming feature is its markings, a regular pattern of white bands and spots checkering a dark grey skin. The one that I saw was a youngster; gauging its size in comparison with the length of my boat, I would say it was only around eight feet long. It must have been attracted by the bright red-and-yellow chute of my sea anchor, following it as I drew it in towards my boat. I felt very privileged to have seen this gentle giant of the seas.
TOWARDS THE END OF THAT MIDDLE STAGE of the row I saw a lot more wildlife, but not so close at hand. One day I noticed about 30 birds, wheeling in a tight flock low above the water about 100 yards away. They seemed to be focused on one particular patch of the ocean. As I watched, I could see that they were diving down into the water, and that the surface of the ocean itself was seething with activity. I could see some large fins slicing backwards and forwards across the area. I assume that some large predators had rounded up a school of fish and then moved in for the kill, and the birds were scavenging the leftovers.
Over the next few days, I saw this scenario repeated on an increasingly frequent basis. Each feeding frenzy would last about ten minutes, after which the party would slowly fizzle out, the water would return to normal, and the flock of birds would disperse. A little later it would start up again somewhere else. I was never really able to see clearly what was going on, as it was mostly under the water and too far away, but since it might involve large predators in a hungry mood, I didn’t feel the urge to dive in for a closer look.
This is the frustration of ocean crossing
s. I knew that there was an incredible world of wildlife down there, just feet below the hull, but mostly it was invisible to me. Only occasionally did the aquatic world break through to the surface. I dream of designing a glass-bottomed rowboat so that I can row along while watching the marine world going about its business beneath me.
Sadly, there is a lot less wildlife in the oceans now than there was even a few decades ago. It’s hard to know exact figures, precisely because it is too difficult to see what is going on beneath the waves, but there is enough evidence from the distances that fishing fleets have to travel, and the reductions in both the size and number of the fish that they catch, to prove that many fish populations are on—or over—the brink of collapse. The size of our human population, devouring more fish than ever and using wasteful industrial fishing practices, has taken its toll. No longer are there plenty more fish in the sea.
I am a firm believer in the power of accumulation, how billions of daily, individual acts add up to enormous consequences. Rowing across oceans, one small oar stroke at a time, has strongly reinforced this for me. There is strength—and horror—in the power of accumulation. If we do the right things, day after day, we can accomplish great feats. But if we allow the days to slip by without checking our internal compass to make sure we’re heading the right way, we are in danger of one day discovering that we have wandered far off course and it is too late or too difficult to achieve our goals.
Over the years, I’ve had people pour scorn on my endeavours: “What difference does it make if I use a plastic bag? Or fly? Or drive an SUV? Or eat fish? Everybody else is doing it. What I do doesn’t make any difference.” Of course, it is up to each individual to square with their conscience how they feel they can and should act in relation to our environment. But it makes me wince to hear people say that their actions don’t matter. We are all making a difference, and it is up to us to choose what kind of a difference that is.
With everything that we do, we are contributing to the collective consciousness and to social norms. Knowingly or not, we are spreading ripples of change. If I remember to bring my own bag to the shops so I don’t have to use a plastic bag, the customer behind me in the queue might notice and resolve to remember to bring their reusable bag the next time. By not eating fish and explaining to my companions why I don’t, I spread information and awareness. One person at a time, we change the definition of generally accepted behaviour. One day we will reach a tipping point, when environmentally unhygienic behaviour is regarded as a selfish act to be stigmatized. Through the steady accumulation of our positive actions, we create real change in the world. The collective significance of our choices becomes clear.
THIS IS TRUE NOT JUST IN AN ENVIRONMENTAL context. At the time when I wrote the two versions of my own obituary, I was leading a perfectly normal, comfortable life. Day to day, there seemed to be nothing wrong with it. But when I took a different perspective, looking into the future to see where that progression of ordinary days would take me, I discovered that it was leading me towards a life of mediocrity, and that was not where I wanted to go.
To use the analogy of my voyages, it took me about a million strokes to get to Hawai’i from San Francisco, and if I’d stood under the Golden Gate Bridge thinking that one oar stroke wasn’t going to make any difference, then I would still be standing there. But I’ve demonstrated by putting one oar stroke after another that in sufficient numbers, even tiny actions can add up to something significant. From the fate of whale sharks in the Pacific to the survival and happiness of people we interact with every day, we’re creating our future.
CHAPTER SIX
I AM NOT MY THOUGHTS
“The gem cannot be polished without friction,
nor man perfected without trials.”
— CHINESE PROVERB
My poor bottom never has a happy time on the ocean, despite my having tried every possible cream, oil, salve, and ointment under the sun. On the Atlantic, I suffered terrible saltwater sores and boils, Pacific Stage 1 likewise. This time around it was different—and even worse. The skin was raw and sore, and sometimes when I sat down it felt like a million evil elves were sticking red-hot pins into my backside. Unable to see the problem for myself—I’m bendy but not that bendy—I took my camera and, stretching my arm to its full length, gathered photographic evidence. It was a horrifying sight—a huge red rash, entirely covering both buttocks, a bottom worthy of a baboon. Knowing how bad it looked somehow made it feel even worse.
I took a couple of days off from rowing, hoping the condition would clear up. I spent most of that time lying on my front, allowing the air to circulate over the painfully inflamed skin. It helped a little, but I couldn’t stay off my backside forever. Doctor Aenor urged me to take antibiotics, but I refused. Maybe it’s old-fashioned of me, but I don’t like ingesting substances that I don’t understand (with the notable exception of alcohol, and that only while I am on dry land). The red moon of my bottom would continue to wax and wane throughout most of the voyage, not fully clearing up until after landfall.
I was also having problems with my teeth. I had been diligent in brushing regularly, despite the general inconvenience of not having running water, but had become rather lax about flossing. I paid the price when my gums became inflamed. It was on Day 86 of my row, when I was probably the farthest from a dentist it is humanly possible to be, that the pain reached a sufficient state of seriousness that I resorted to a “no-chew” regimen, as I noted in my logbook.
For a week I mulched all my food. For breakfast I would have porridge enriched with coconut-milk powder. Most of the Lärabars had nice big chunks of almond in them, but I had to avoid those and choose the softer bars instead. Peanut Butter Cookie flavour was in; Ginger Snap was out. The easiest ones to eat were the JamFrakas bars, Lärabar’s child-oriented snacks, which consisted mostly of puffed rice and were a lot easier to squish between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. For lunch and dinner, I had to take my raw-food crackers and soak them in water for an hour or so until they turned to the consistency of baby food. The resulting mixture didn’t look very appetizing, somewhat resembling cat vomit, but it tasted better than it looked and didn’t hurt my teeth, which was all that mattered.
MY OTHER MAIN PROBLEM WAS that it was hot, phenomenally hot, and I do not function well in the heat. I am English. I grew up in a temperate climate. My father had ginger hair, and I have inherited his fair complexion. In the tropics, I feel as if my brain is being boiled in my skull. My skin breaks out in itchy red rashes. In short, I wilt.
In desperation, I began taking cooling dips in the ocean. Previously I had been very nervous about getting out of my boat; I felt exposed and scared when not safely aboard. Scrubbing barnacles off the hull was my least favourite job. But now my fear was outweighed by my desperate need to cool down. I got quite blasé about hopping overboard at the end of every rowing shift. Compared with the prospect of being baked alive, it was by far the lesser of the evils and allowed at least a brief respite from the relentless heat.
I would stand on the gunwale and gaze down into the blue depths, looking before I leaped to make sure that I wasn’t about to dive-bomb a shark. That would have been bad news for both of us. It was quite mesmerizing looking down from the side of the boat, the sunbeams slanting through the water to form a corona around my shadow.
I would then launch myself into the water in a bomb position to prevent myself going too deep. As the ocean closed over my head, I relished the sudden wet coolness against the prickly heat of my skin, soothing my mind as well as my body. Mindful that it was absolutely vital not to get separated from my boat, even before I surfaced I would already be reaching out with one arm to grab the black safety rope that looped around the sides of the Brocade, attached firmly to eyebolts screwed right through the hull. I could have used an ankle leash to attach myself to the boat, but that would have been too constraining, and I made sure that I swam only on calm days when I could be quite sure that the boat and I wou
ld not drift apart while I was resurfacing. On rougher days, the welcome breezes were enough to help me maintain a reasonable temperature without the need for a swim.
If I was feeling energetic, I would swim a couple of laps of the boat, straying no more than an arm’s length from the reassuring presence of her silver sides. Otherwise I just hung on to the safety line and bobbed gently in the water for a couple of minutes, enjoying seeing the world from a different angle—a turtle’s-eye view, say.
I would look down through the clear blue water at my toes and marvel at the fact that about two miles of ocean dropped away beneath me. I would imagine my way down into the depths, as if I were a superhuman free diver, plunging through the upper layers where the light still penetrated and fishes played, down farther into the oceanic twilight where larger creatures lurked, and eventually all the way into the inky depths, where mysterious monsters ruled.
It didn’t scare me to think about these creatures. On balance, it seemed to me that they have much more to fear from us than we do from them. In the last 60 years, we have wiped out about 90 percent of big fish such as tuna and swordfish. We kill about 100 million sharks per year, while they kill about eight of us, on average. I hoped that if I left them alone, then they would return the favour.
It was easy enough to get back onto the boat. If I swam to either of the aft corners of the cockpit, I could clamber up using the grab rope and stowed oars as footholds and handholds. I became quite addicted to my quick plunges, looking forward to the next swim almost as soon as I had finished the previous one.
HOWEVER, ONE DAY MY OVERBOARD FORAYS came to an abrupt end. I had enjoyed my cooling skinny-dip and was just about to climb out of the water when I felt something small and slimy attach itself to my right buttock. I reacted—some might say overreacted—strongly, disgustedly, and swiftly. I doubt anybody has ever exited the water quite so fast. As I grasped the oar and shot out of the waves, I looked down over my shoulder to see a small, grey fish gaping gormlessly at me as it clung to my backside. I squealed and slapped it away.
