by Roz Savage
The decision suddenly became more critical. On Day 86, the watermaker broke. I had replaced its electric motor in Hawai’i, the critical component that had rusted to death on the first stage of the row, and the rest of the machine had been thoroughly overhauled. When it lost all pressure and refused to work, I was at a loss as to what the problem could be. It was certainly not the motor, which I could hear running with its reassuring hum. I cleaned the mesh of the pre-filter, which removes the larger particles from the seawater, to no avail. Even though I was sure it wasn’t the cause of the problem, I replaced the feed pump—I carried two spares with me after the problems of the previous year—but again to no effect. I checked to make sure all the connections were tight, and they were. I was baffled.
Luckily I had enough water in ballast bags to last the remainder of the voyage, and I didn’t have to resort to using the manual watermaker that the Junk guys had kindly donated. But this did give a greater urgency to the matter of my destination.
The question was complicated by the fact that I was in transition between my existing weatherman in Hawai’i and a new one, Ricardo in Lisbon, Portugal. I had met Ricardo on a couple of occasions and knew him to be a charming young man with Mediterranean good looks and a laid-back attitude. Not that good looks are an important attribute in a weatherman, of course, but they don’t hurt, either.
On Day 87, the day after the watermaker broke, Ricardo told me that he had a good “gut feel” that I could still make it to Tuvalu, despite my difficulties in making convincing progress south. This feeling was based on his analysis of the weather and currents on my patch of ocean, and in retrospect, I can see that I wanted to believe him for several reasons. Tuvalu had been my original stated goal, and I was keen to stick with my initial plan if at all possible. Also, Ric and I were establishing a new professional relationship, and to doubt his word would not be a good start. Added to that, Nicole had expressed a preference for Tuvalu from the environmental public relations angle. Virtually all the islands in the South Pacific will experience a significant impact from the rising oceans, if the climate scientists are correct, but the Tuvalu government had already been highly vocal on the issue of global climate change. Several Tuvaluans had already posted comments on my blog to express their welcome in advance. So in a rash moment, I recorded a video post, declaring my intention to hold out for Tuvalu—absolutely, decidedly, definitely Tuvalu.
WHEN WILL I EVER LEARN? NOTHING ON OCEANS is ever absolute, or decided, or definite. It ain’t over till the now-not-so-fat lady makes landfall. Even as I uploaded the video, I was already starting to doubt the feasibility of my plan.
On Day 89, I crossed the international date line. For a while I had wondered if I might manage to cross the IDL and the equator simultaneously. That would have been quite an achievement and would have qualified me to be an Emerald Shellback, the term bestowed on the few human beings who have managed to cross the intersection of those imaginary lines at 180 degrees west and 0 degrees north. But it was not to be. I was still 46 miles north of the equator when I lost 31 August to the peculiarities of time zones and took a shortcut into September. My celebrations were muted. It didn’t feel like such a big deal, compared with the much more pressing question of my destination.
Over the next few days, my concerns grew due to a number of factors. I discovered by zooming around on my new chartplotter that the coordinates I had been given for Tuvalu weren’t for the main island, but for an outlying island that had little infrastructure and would not be a good place to land. The outlying island would be easier navigationally but a poor choice logistically, while the main island would be better logistically but an awful lot harder navigationally.
Around the same time, Ricardo sent me a text saying I had 142 nautical miles of longitude left—that is, another 142 nautical miles west, during which I would have to push hard south to get down to the latitude of Tuvalu. This disagreed with my figures. I believed I had only around 100 miles of longitude, which would make my task much more challenging.
I grew still more concerned when he set me a target of making three miles east every day while I headed south, in order to maximize my chances of reaching Tuvalu. If I failed to make this goal one day, he said, I had to add the shortfall onto the next day’s total. There could be no ongoing slippage if I was going to reach Tuvalu. But this was nearly impossible. Now that I had emerged from the east-flowing equatorial countercurrent, the water would be pushing me to the west. Every time I stopped rowing I would lose ground against the schedule.
Once again I temporarily put my worries to one side, this time as I made the final countdown to the equator. As zero degrees approached, I planned my celebrations. The IDL had not meant much to me. It was just an arbitrary, manmade line, directly opposite the equally arbitrary, manmade line of the prime meridian that ran through Greenwich in London.
But the equator was a proper, natural delineation, the line of equidistance between the North and South Poles, those far-flung points at the top and bottom of the world that marked the axis of the Earth’s rotation. The equator felt much more significant. On a more mundane level, it also meant I could open the package that a friend in Hawai’i had given to me just before I departed. A small yellow drybag, it bore the instructions in capital letters: “Not to be opened before 0 degrees.” I had a sneaking suspicion that it contained at least a small quantity of alcohol. Not that I’d been squeezing the bag like a naughty child checking out the parcels under the tree before Christmas Day. No, of course not—not me. That would have been downright childish.
EQUATOR DAY DAWNED FINE and calm. I had to make 11 miles to the south in order to reach my goal. Conditions were flat, windless, and unhelpful, and it took me most of the day. I started rowing at 6:30 in the morning, and at 5:05 in the evening I crossed the legendary line. I had been sharing the countdown of the last few miles on Twitter, posting an update each time I checked off another mile. I fondly imagined my online followers celebrating along with me as I turned on the video camera to record my own festivities for posterity.
First things first: Homage had to be paid to King Neptune. On cruise ships, they usually have a crew member dress up as the god of the ocean. I didn’t have a crewmate handy, so I turned to my small menagerie of cuddly toys—two ducks, a robin, and a dolphin. It may not seem appropriate for a 41-year-old woman to have taken a collection of stuffed toys to sea, but over the years various schools had entrusted me with their beloved mascots. The students eagerly awaited news of the toys’ maritime adventures via the blog, so it did not behoove me to eschew their cuddly companionship.
The choice was easy. This was clearly Squishy the Dolphin’s big day. I propped him up on his tail and gave him a fork to use as a trident. I didn’t have a crown handy, but he looked regal enough without. I genuflected to Neptune/Squishy a couple of times before turning my attention to the yellow goody bag. It contained various random symbolic objects—a wooden spatula, a string of plastic fish beads, a couple of snack bars. Aha, this is what I was looking for! I pulled out a mini-bottle of champagne, containing the equivalent of about two glasses. I already had a plan for this.
I unclipped the string bag that usually held my bean sprout pot to stop it from being washed overboard, and popped the champagne bottle inside. I attached it to a longish piece of rope and dropped it over the side. I waited a while. At least two minutes. Then I decided that the water was so warm that it probably wouldn’t have much cooling effect anyway. And what if a shark came along and stole it? That would be a disaster. Best to drink it now. I pulled the line in again.
The bottle was, predictably, warm. But champagne had never tasted so good. I sipped it respectfully. I hadn’t had a drink in three months, and very soon my mind was buzzing pleasantly. As the sun dipped in the sky, I enjoyed the sweet nectar and prattled away to my video camera about how wonderful life was and how all my dreams were coming true. For the first time since I had left dry land, I forgot all my problems, past, present, and future
, Tuvalu and Tarawa, and relaxed into the moment.
As I sipped, I spotted a cruise ship a mile or two distant. It didn’t seem to be moving. I halfheartedly tried to hail them on the VHF radio—mostly to ask if they could please pop over with another bottle of champagne, as it was going down quite well—but got no reply. They were probably too busy with their own celebrations, inflicting the ritual humiliations on those crossing the equator for the first time and making the transition from Pollywogs to Shellbacks. This cruise ship would turn out to be the only other vessel that I saw on this stage of the row. If you ever feel the need for some peace and quiet and don’t mind a bit of warmth, I can recommend the doldrums of the Pacific. With the possible exception of the polar regions, nowhere else will guarantee you such solitude.
I drained the last drop from my little champagne bottle and treated myself to an extra-special dinner: my new favourite dish of curry with coconut milk powder, followed by some whole-food treats given to me by another friend in Hawai’i—some carob nuggets and raw-food cookies. They were much more delicious than they sound, take it from me. At last I had reached the southern hemisphere. After all the frustration and struggle I felt an enormous sense of achievement and satisfaction. It was a good day.
THE NEXT MORNING, CELEBRATIONS OVER, the worries returned. I had promised myself I would put my navigational decision on hold until I crossed the equator. Now I couldn’t postpone the decision any more. If I was aiming for Tuvalu, I now had less than 500 nautical miles to go. All that day I did my best to obey Ricardo’s instructions to row east, but I found myself almost paralysed by the impossibility of the task. Every time I stopped rowing I was pushed west by the current. It was utterly demoralizing. It seemed that Ric’s target would be unachievable unless I rowed 24 hours a day for the remainder of my voyage, and maybe not even then.
In my heart of hearts, I knew that Tuvalu was impossible. But part of me still resisted changing my mind. It was my stated destination. My imminent arrival had been announced on the radio, I was due to meet with members of the government, we had arranged storage for my boat—and of course I wanted to find out more about how they intended to become the world’s first carbon-neutral nation.
That night I slept badly. The cabin was hot and airless, and I lay there, itching and sweating and churning the question in my mind. Tuvalu or Tarawa? Tuvalu or Tarawa? It became unbearable inside, so I went out on deck to cool down. I looked up at the stars and the setting moon. The night sky helped calm my thoughts and give me a sense of perspective. I sighed. I realized I knew the answer; I was just having difficulty admitting it to myself because I was embarrassed to have to change my mind so publicly.
If I persisted in aiming for Tuvalu, the worst-case scenario was pretty bad. There was a substantial risk of running out of water and possibly missing the island altogether and spinning off into the great blue yonder. The food situation wasn’t looking too good either. I definitely had enough to get me to Tarawa, but the delays and backslidings in the countercurrents at the equator had cost me valuable time, so I would have to ration if I was to push for Tuvalu. Going hungry while rowing 24 hours a day was not an appealing prospect. I could have a fallback plan of calling for a boat to tow me in if it looked like I would miss it by a few miles.
Ultimately, although the message was important, I reasoned, it definitely helps if the messenger (a) is alive, and (b) has not had to rely on some fossil-fuel guzzling means of transport to come and rescue her if/when she seemed in danger of disappearing over the horizon with no water and no food. So it seemed the choice was clear. The sensible, responsible, if rather embarrassing thing to do would be to change course for Tarawa. I could reach it relatively easily—or as easily as ocean rowing ever lets it be—well before I ran out of sustenance and without having to rely on outside intervention.
Ultimately, I had to put survival first. The decision was made. Now I just needed to persuade my team that it was the right thing to do.
I CALLED RICARDO FIRST. ALTHOUGH IT WAS the middle of the night where I was, it was a reasonable time of day in Lisbon—not that this mattered to Ric, who seemed to be awake at all hours of the day and night, judging from the time stamps on his e-mails. He told me that he was completely supportive of whatever I decided to do, and we talked it out until we had agreed that I would aim for Tarawa.
Then I called Nicole. I was worried about how she would react. She had been in touch with people in Tuvalu and had already found somewhere I could store my boat for the nine months until the next stage of my row. She’d made provisional plans for flights and accommodation and logistics. This would mean starting over. When I gave her the news, the briefest of pauses betrayed her disappointment, but she took it like the professional that she is. She agreed to put plans in place for Tarawa instead.
Next, the really humiliating part. Having declared so adamantly that I was going to head for Tuvalu, I would have to confess to my online audience that I had changed my mind. I just had to hope that they would understand my reasons. Ultimately, the watermaker’s breaking had been the deciding factor, and I doubted anybody could argue with that. Nobody ever died of embarrassment, as far as I know, but many people have died of dehydration.
Uncomfortable though it had been, I was hugely relieved now that the decision had been made and communicated to all interested parties. The cloud of doubt that had hung over me for so long had dispersed, and the sunshine of certainty was shining. Having fought so hard to get south across the equator, I needed to cross it again to get to Tarawa, which lies at one degree north. I turned my bows to point downwind, and was soon flying along, relishing the joy of working with the elements rather than against them.
Within hours, Nicole e-mailed to let me know she had rebooked the flights and found accommodation. She would be in Tarawa within four days to prepare for my arrival. Conrad (a cameraman) and another friend from Hawai’i would be coming with her. It looked like everything was falling beautifully into place. I relaxed for the first time in weeks and wondered why I had been so apprehensive about breaking the news. It’s funny how our thoughts can take over, and how often our fears prove to be unfounded.
With perfect timing, the audiobook I was listening to at that point of the voyage was The Astonishing Power of Emotions, by Esther and Jerry Hicks, in which they advised, “Nothing you want lies upstream.” I very much doubt that this was intended to be applied to ocean navigation, but it did seem more than coincidental that choosing to go with the flow had unleashed a remarkable run of good fortune.
THERE WAS A FINAL MAGICAL MOMENT in store for me on that stage of the row. It was still unbearably hot in my cabin, so one night I decided to try sleeping out on deck. It might not be long before the next squall came along to drench me, but it was worth a try. I took my sleeping bag and dragged it out to the cockpit, making it into a cozy nest between the runners of my rowing seat. I snuggled in and lay there, gazing up at the stars.
As my boat rocked gently on the waves, I found myself suddenly marvelling at the strangeness and splendour of my life. It was as if I rose up outside myself for a moment and looked down at this little naked woman lying on the deck of her small silver boat, completely alone in the vast darkness of the ocean.
Who would have thought, ten years previously when I was still working in an office in London, doing a job I didn’t like to buy stuff I didn’t need, that one day I would find myself here, in the middle of the Pacific, well on my way to becoming the first woman to row across the world’s largest ocean? There had been some scary moments over the years that had tested me almost beyond my limits, but they had also helped me become stronger, to form a character that could withstand the vicissitudes of life—not just on the ocean, but on dry land too. I thought back to that unhappy, underachieving management consultant who had dragged herself into the office every day because she thought she had no choice. I was immensely happy that I had reached that fork in the road, and that I had chosen the road—or ocean—less traveled.
I snuggled in deeper, and marveled at the beauty above me. So far from the nearest light pollution, the stars sparkled across the night sky like a jewel-encrusted cape. The Milky Way swooped diagonally across the heavens, reminding me of my utter insignificance, and at the same time my complete interconnection with everything. I was just a tiny speck of consciousness, and yet I was consciousness itself, omnipresent and omnipotent. I was suddenly overcome with a profound sense of joy—which lasted until the clouds blotted out the stars, a squall blew in, and I beat a hasty retreat to the shelter of the cabin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ONE WORLD
“When the power of love overcomes the love of power
the world will know peace.”
— ATTRIBUTED TO JIMI HENDRIX
As I began the final 20 miles to Tarawa, I’d had less than 6 hours of sleep in the previous 48, and the heat was brutal. The sun beat down from an almost cloudless equatorial sky. As usual, I was rowing naked, and I could feel the impact of the sun’s rays on my skin, striking me with their powerful heat as if to penetrate me to my core. Only a few tiny, fluffy cumulus clouds broke the endless blue, giving no relief. The ocean was like a mirror, the first time I had seen it so flat in the 100-plus days I’d been at sea. There wasn’t a breath of breeze, and the sweat ran down my back in rivulets. I stopped rowing for a moment to glug down some water, but it was warm, tasted of plastic, and failed to refresh. I yearned for an ice-cold drink—preferably one with bubbles and alcohol in it.
Since giving up on Tuvalu as a destination, I had looped back up to re-cross the equator into the northern hemisphere. I had already made it safely past the island of Abemama (where Robert Louis Stevenson, author of Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, lived for a while), but it was no straightforward matter trying to hit the tiny target of Tarawa in such a huge ocean. I could see from my GPS where I was and where I wanted to end up, but connecting the two was proving to be difficult when winds were pushing me this way and that, and there were islands and reefs in the way.
