Having A Go

One of the unexpected blessings of our journey has been the people we’ve met and gotten to know. Recently, we’ve spent some time with a few people who stand out, and who will be leaving lifelong impressions on both me and Jennifer.

Here in Baie Phaeton, about 60 km from the main harbor of Tahiti, located at the narrow isthmus between Tahiti Nui and Tahiti Iti (the two mountains that make up Tahiti), the boats at anchor are less interested in the glitz and money-consuming “glamour” of Papeete, and more interested in cruising. Our three new friends fall into this category (we are here because that’s where the marina is that will fix our Volvo engine).

About ten days ago, a lovely little 37’ ferro-cement sloop – Zephyrus – drifted in and anchored nearby. As is our custom, we motored over to introduce ourselves and give them a lay of the land (where’s the market, etc.). As is also our wont, we invited them to dinner, since the first night at anchor after a passage often finds the crew tired and the boat a bit worse for the wear.

Andy and Rhian had just arrived from Chile, via the Gambier Islands. Andy had spent a number of years in southern Chile and Argentina before purchasing a boat and undertaking an extensive refit. Rhian is an Antarctic researcher, and had spent many months there doing climate research. Rhian and Andy married a few years ago, despite the concern of Rhian’s friends that he “smiled too much.” Perpetually cheerful and filled with the kind of understated confidence that seems common among adventurers, both Andy and Rhian have become good friends in a short time; we’ve spent a few days hiking the island, exploring waterfalls and remote coastlines.

After joining the British Royal Marines at the age of 16 (processing error overlooked by anxious recruiters!), Andy mastered the arts of mountaineering, expeditions, and the like. He’s climbed the north face of the Eiger. He’s crossed the ice caps of southern South America. He’s rounded Cape Horn twice. Other adventures go unrelated, but were part of his official duties in the British Marines. Among other vocations, Andy also had a stint as the assistant curator at the small South Georgia museum honoring Sir Ernest Shackleton (where, among other duties, he tended the graveyard where the greatest seaman since Captain Cook lays buried). He’s in his mid thirties, and Zephyrus is his first boat. Rhian is the more-than-capable co-captain, handling electronics. She’s just put her career as a scientist on hold, first with the British Antarctic Service and then spending a lot of time working on the International Polar Ice Cap Year.

Incredibly, after refitting their boat and having just left the Chilean coast to head for New Zealand via French Polynesia, they were at anchor at a remote island off the coast of Chile when the earthquake and ensuing tsunami hit in late February of this year. At about 2 am local time, Andy woke to what he thought was the sound of nearby earthworks; instead, the steep side of the mountain adjoining the anchorage was sliding into the sea not several hundred yards from their moored boat, taking along with it the houses and buildings of the small harbor village. They had moored to a sturdy buoy built by and for the Chilean Navy, and were fortunate that they were not swept in and out of the anchorage. Soon, the harbor was filled with floating houses, debris, and all manner of junk; at one point, Zephyrus had a house pinned on its bow and one on its stern. Families were clinging to rooftops, and suddenly, a house sank under, plunging the family into the swirling waters. After saving a number of people swept into the harbor, Andy and Rhiann managed to throw a line and rescue one small girl, but the ebb and flow of the tsunami surges pulled the rest of the family out of reach – thankfully, they were picked up a bit later by another fishing boat.

Before long, they were ordered to evacuate the harbor by the Navy, and by this time, had accumulated the entire family of the little girl on their small sailboat. Hurriedly, they made their way to the next small bay to offload the family. Using an inflatable Zodiac they had picked up in the melee, and powered by Andy’s gift of his own outboard, the family cast off for the steep rocky shore only to have the Zodiac’s engine die in the vulnerable shallow waters. Risking everything, Andy nosed Zepyhrus into the shallows, and Rhian went aboard the Zodiac. Using the oars of Zephyrus’s own dinghy, she rowed the family ashore, and then returned to Zephyrus, abandoning the Zodiac and motor, and leaving as quickly as possible to escape the next set of tsunami surges.

(You can read more of this adventure here, and in an article published in the Daily Mail, an English newspaper, here.)

It’s an incredible story made all the more incredible when you learn that Andy had also survived the 2004 Thailand tsunami, as well as having then survived a 360 degree roll of a rural bus he was taking from one remote Thai village to another. We’ve gotten to know them both, I’m reminded that there is always another level to any game you’re playing. To many of our friends back home, we’re on a risky adventure; against the backdrop of Andy and Rhian’s experiences, we’re out for a Sunday stroll.

But as I’ve grown older, I have more or less completely internalized the reality that it’s not a race or contest we’re in. We each have our own game, with its own levels, incomparable to others’ lives. These are OUR lives, each unique and special, and filled with wonder and grace. Sailing, tsunamis, tending a garden, comforting a child, greeting a sunrise or ordering a special cup of coffee – these are the moments we stitch together to form a tapestry of our life that is meaningful in the moment and, once done, if we’re lucky, rewarding in retrospect. We’re enjoying our moments together, Jennifer and I, sharing our lives and experiences with an isolated intimacy deeper than anything in our 28 year history. I feel blessed.

Later in the week, after some hiking together, Andy and Rhian introduced us to a friend they have known for years, whose boat is also at anchor here. Tony Mowbray is a larger-than-life Aussie, and had just flown in to meet with Andy and Rhiann about a possible business venture. Tony’s boat, Commitment, lay downwind of us here in the harbor – a sturdy 60’ schooner. We soon learned that Commitment had been in the business of ferrying adventurers to and from Antarctica, based in, the world’s southernmost city: Ushuaia, Argentina. Last night, on Tony’s boat, during a dinner of massive tuna steaks, mashed potatoes, and carrots, and many bottles of wine and beer, we heard Tony’s story, abbreviated below.

Tony started sailing as a youngster on the east coast of Australia, and by the mid-90s, had become a rather accomplished sailor and racer. Somewhere along the line, he acquired a dream – a mission, really – to sail solo, non-stop around the world. Without much capital, he began to cobble together the resources, including a boat able to withstand the rigors of the southern oceans, where no land masses exist to slow the near-constant gale-force winds that circle the globe below the capes of Africa, Australia, and South America. By 1998, he was ready to test his boat, and with a crew of 7 (8 total), they entered an annual race from Sydney, Australia to Hobart, Tasmania, across the Bass Channel. The Bass Channel is known as one of the roughest parts of any ocean north or south; in addition to the aforementioned winds, there are strong currents that run southward down the coast of Australia, and a rise in the ocean floor that funnels enormous volumes of water through the narrow, shallow Bass Channel. The boats left in fair weather, but there were storm warnings.

The 1998 Sydney-Hobart race is known to sailors as among the most devastating races ever. Six people died, many boats were lost, and Tony’s story of captaining his boat in 80 knot winds and 100 foot seas held us spellbound. At about 4 pm, the predicted storm had more than materialized, and the waves and breaking seas were threatening to sink his boat. One wave after another passed dangerously underneath the boat; 4 crew on deck; 4 below, including Tony, trying to rest for the next watch.

Suddenly, everything was upside down. The boat had been slammed by a huge breaking wave and turned turtle. The mast and sail was underwater, and the boat’s keel surfed the surface like a huge shark fin. Water engulfed the boat, and filled the cabin. At least one crew member was washed overboard, secured by only his lifeline. For 20 seconds (count it out!), the boat careened upside down along the wave face, falling with the force of gravity down a steep 100’ wall of water. As it fell, the weight of the keel slowly began to fall from the upright vertical, to a sideways position, and with it, the boat began to rotate right-side up. After several lifetimes (count it out!), and by the bottom of the fall, the boat had more or less righted itself.

It was in shambles. The mast had broken, its supporting wires and shrouds a tangled mess. The cabin was filled with water and the decks were awash. Everything below was torn asunder. Crew were missing or unseen. After checking around below, Tony opened the cockpit hatch to see his mate and helmsman’s arm emerge, Deliverance-like, from the water behind the boat. In his thick Aussie accent, Tony called out: “Would you mind getting back in the boat, mate?” The helmsman had been swept overboard, secured only by his lifeline and harness, dragged face-first behind the boat as it fell down the wave.

Tony is a big man, with a big voice, a large heart, and a commanding presence. He’s Aussie thru-and-thru. He’s a driven man whose biggest fear is not failing to finish but failing to start. He took quick stock: a boat awash in 100 foot seas and 80 knot winds. One crew with a fractured leg; two others with crushed ribs. A mast in the water. No engine. Cold logic set in, and in re-telling, his Aussie attitude of “Let’s have a go of it, mate” rings true. He began to have a go of it.

First objective: secure the crew. The broken leg stayed on deck, crushed rib cages below; the rest of the crew were set to bailing (there’s nothing faster than a scared man with a bucket: “FILL BUCKET; “This water belongs out there!;” RE-FILL; “This water belongs out there!”) and, cutting free the mast, taking care to make sure the lines hadn’t caught on the rudder (what a tragedy if the sinking mast were to have dragged down the boat!). No need to deploy the emergency beacons yet; let’s see if we can stabilize the situation.

Once stabilized, the boat and crew still faced the weather and sea. The engines were out of commission, having filled with sea water in the turn-turtle. Afternoon gave way to night, and Tony never left the wheel. By 2am, the boat is barely afloat, surfing/falling down one wave after another. A breaking wave behind them, if it were to swamp the boat, would have meant the end; not enough buoyancy to keep the boat up, so the mate with the broken leg, facing aft and lying prone on the deck, would signal to Tony whether to push left or right to avoid the oncoming waves. A wave every 12-15 seconds. Later in the dark pre-dawn, it happened: the wave broke over the boat and crushed Tony against the wheel as the boat, again awash, fell down the wave as Tony yelled ( his emotions overcoming him as he retells the story over a decade later): “This is the one, boys!”

Tony tears up easily in the re-telling, as we sit enraptured in the small cabin, safe at anchor in Tahiti. We offer to let the story go for another night, but he lets us know he’s not ashamed to be emotional about this; during the brush with death, one of his longtime sailing mates and close friends was thinking that it was his wife’s birthday, and he was not going to die that day. It was the closest Tony has been to death, a closeness still immediately felt a dozen years later.

When a boat surfs down a wave, it either has enough buoyancy to ride up the back of the preceding wave, or, lacking such buoyancy, plows its bow into the backside of the wave and digs deeper into the wave, with usually catastrophic results. In its then-condition, Tony’s boat (the one he was testing for his solo, non-stop round-the-world quest) was in no condition to survive the latter possibility. Pressed hard against the wheel by the continuing force of the breaking wave, Tony focused his eyes on the pulpit, the small stainless steel railing at the front of most sailboats. As his boat slammed into the preceding wave, he watched the pulpit hover, dip, hover, and then slowly rise up, its buoyancy just sufficient to lift the bow above the frothing water. Even in the retelling, the relief in Tony’s eyes spoke volumes. They had survived the pooping sea, even as the boat too another damaging hit to its structural stability.

The next day, as the winds and seas began to abate, Tony managed to assemble spare parts of his spinnaker poles (which, when unused, lay flat and secured on the deck) into a makeshift mast, and hoisted a small sail to begin the long slog back to Australia. They were underway, albeit in fragile condition. Later, a helicopter appeared to evacuate the injured. In the interest of abbreviation, suffice it to say that this was another harrowing exercise, as each injured crew needed to be lowered into the ocean, there to be plucked to safety by those remarkable rescue pilots and crew. Later, a ship drew close, and a boat was launched, arriving alongside the tattered sailboat. The young marine in charge of the rescue boat called out: “Good day, Captain.” Tony replied: “Good day, sir.” The marine stated that he had been instructed to evacuate all persons from the yacht, and Tony replied that he’d rather not leave his boat, that he was making way to home, but that perhaps some of his crew wished to evacuate.

Several of his crew left then, but several stayed with Tony. A bit later, a tug sent by his insurance company came and towed them back to port, battered, torn, but not broken. The subsequent inquiry into the race and its aftermath featured Tony’s seamanship and leadership as an exemplar. Interviewed upon arrival back safely at port, he related in shaking voice his intention to pull the plug on his solo round the world quest. His crew, likewise interviewed, were in awe of his leadership during and after the storm. He brought his crew and boat home safely, which is what is expected of a sea captain.

I learned these last facts – his intentions and his crew’s awe -- when we watched the 1 hour documentary of Tony’s subsequent, and successful, solo, non-stop circumnavigation, which he undertook not 18 months later, and completed in a mere 181 days. He had the same boat that survived the Sydney-Hobart race, refitted and strengthened. In his circumnavigation, he had one knockdown similar to that experienced in the Sydney-Hobart race, and almost lost his mast when the port shroud chainplate pulled loose of the deck. The documentary records in candid, emotional fashion Tony’s heartbreak when he realizes his mast is all but lost, and then subsequently, records his unquestioning determination to fashion a juryrig solution to the broken chainplate. Seven days of non-stop labor, with an altogether imaginative use of spare lines, pulleys, blocks, winches, and brute human strength, solved the chainplate issue, and the self-filmed documentary records the exaltation in Tony’s voice as he realizes he can continue sailing, eventually to make landfall in his home port.

He’s a larger-than-life person, a curious mix of ego and self-effacement, of gregariousness and shyness. He’s faced situations that few have ever faced, much less overcome. Through it all, he evinces a humility and sense of obligation to his community that, again, seems rare to me. Each of his passages has been for a charity; he’s far from well-off (one sponsor agreed to feed his family while he was away); and he’s dedicated his life to pursuing his dream and convincing others to pursue theirs. He’s no-nonsense, and even when sponsors ask him to speak to their sales forces or executives, he flies economy. He’s a sailor’s sailor, quick with an off-color joke, a smile, and an offer to “have another go at it, mate!” For more on Tony, see here.

I’m really glad we met Tony, I’m honored to have heard his stories firsthand, and I’m grateful to Andy and Rhian for the introduction and for our growing friendship. Mostly I’m really glad that Jennifer and I are, indeed, having a go at it, mates, on our own terms, playing our own game. Onward to Australia.