Alone on a Wide Wide Sea (18 page)

Whenever I caught a fish after that my albatross seemed to be waiting, so I always threw him the head. I got less squeamish about boning and gutting them too, and I learned how to cook them better each time. The truth is that I began to enjoy the whole process, from the excitement of seeing the line go taut to the eating itself. So now unless it was really stormy I’d have a line out astern of me most of the time.

Routine was all important to living on
Kitty Four
. It kept
my spirits up. Routine checks of everything up on deck—regular adjustments to the halyards and the steering lines. Regular meals and hot meals too, if the weather allowed. The weather rules everything at sea, so sailing the boat came first. But I tried to live as normal a life as possible, tried not to allow the sea to dictate how I spent every moment of my day. So I learned my
Ancient Mariner
. I wrote my emails. I tidied the cabin. I played my CDs. I mended what had to be mended—there was always something. I fitted the spare membrane to my troublesome desalinator, superglued what had to be superglued. I washed clothes, not as often as I should, and hung them out to dry. I liked to keep myself clean too—to begin with I hadn’t cared about it, but the longer I was at sea the more important it became. So I washed whenever I could—I always felt so much better for having made the effort. And on fine nights, however hard it was blowing, I’d always do the same thing. I’d go up into the cockpit if possible with my cup of hot chocolate and I’d watch the stars. I’d do a lot of my singing up there too—everything from
London Bridge
to
Hey ho Little Fish
to
Yellow Submarine
.

It was on just such a night that I first saw it. I was sitting there gazing up at the zillions of stars, wondering if Grandpa back home was also sitting there with his telescope doing the very same thing at the very same moment, remembering how he loved to tell me what each of them was called, how he’d help me to hold his telescope myself. I was remembering all this when I saw a shooting star pass overhead, much lower and brighter and slower than shooting stars usually were. I watched in amazement as this light arced across the sky, knowing already it couldn’t be a shooting star. It had to be a satellite of some kind. I went down below at once and emailed home to see if Grandpa knew what it could be. Until now I’d never had an email direct from Grandpa—they had always come through Mum. But the next day he emailed me back himself. “I checked. Got to be the ISS. International Space Station.”

I saw it up there again a few nights later even brighter this time, even closer, and I got to thinking: those astronauts up there are closer to me at this moment than any other human being on earth. I’m sailing the seas down
here. They’re sailing through space up there. I wondered then if with all their high-tech gizmos they could see me. I felt like waving. So I stood there in the cockpit and waved and shouted till my arms ached, till my throat was sore. I was just so excited, so so happy to see them up there. That was when the idea first came to me to try to make contact with them, proper contact. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, I thought, to meet up by email or even by phone, so we could actually talk to one another as they passed over? I sent an email to Grandpa. It was just a crazy idea to start with, just a lovely dream. Grandpa emailed back. “No worries. I’ll fix it.” I thought he was joking. Meanwhile I had a boat to sail.

I was still about 1000 miles from the Horn. I was down to 57°S. There was ice about in the south, lots of it. It was cold you couldn’t forget, the kind that got into your bones, deep into your kidneys. Feet and hands went numb, so when I cut myself, and I often did, I couldn’t feel it. My ears and my nose ached with it. I used to warm my socks and gloves on the kettle, but the trouble was that my toes and fingers were always colder than my socks and gloves
were warm. So the bliss never lasted for long. I’d never known cold like it. I’d do all I could to stay down below in the warm fug I’d created for myself. But sooner or later I’d always have to go back up there again, and the snugger I’d make myself, the colder the blast that hit me when I got up into the cockpit.

It was too rough for fishing now, and far too cold anyway, but my albatross was usually still there. He’d go off for a day or two, but I knew he’d always come back, and he did. I had such faith in him, that he’d stay with me and see me safely round the Horn. And I knew why too, knew it for sure, though I’d stopped writing about it in my emails because I thought it might upset Mum, and because I know it sounded at best a bit crazy. But I knew I wasn’t hallucinating, that I wasn’t mad. I now knew for sure that it was Dad’s spirit soaring up above
Kitty Four
. He was an albatross, of course he was, but he was Dad too.

It was a different world I was sailing in down there, the wildest place I’d ever been. I could see and feel the swell building all the time. South of 60° between Cape Horn and the Antarctic peninsula there’s no land to break up the
ocean swells, so the waves travel uninterrupted for hundreds of miles and they’re just massive—I kept using the word “awesome” in my emails, and that was about right. I knew
Kitty Four
could handle them, but I also knew I couldn’t leave it all to her. I had to be out there avoiding the breaking waves, especially the hollow ones, the ones that look as if they’re going to swallow you up. Sleep was almost impossible in seas like this, in weather like this. The wind screamed all the time. It was a constant pounding. I was on edge, listening to the boat, trying to work out if she was just complaining, or whether she was telling me something was really wrong. Like me, she was finding this very hard. We were both being tested as never before.

Below in the cabin was my whole world for hours on end. It was cramped, but down there I felt warm and safe. My bunk was a tight fit—it had to be because falling out was very painful and dangerous too. But it wasn’t comfortable. I’d lie there surrounded by all the stuff that was keeping me alive—the medical box, generator, stove, charts, almanacs, sextant, pc, spares for everything, harnesses, life vests and sails—and kept telling myself that
Kitty Four
and all this equipment would get me through. And when I went up on deck there was my albatross telling me exactly the same thing. It was scary, it was heartthumpingly scary at times, but I never for one moment thought we wouldn’t make it. And whenever I felt like human company, I’d sing to myself or listen to a CD, or email home. In my emails I tried to hide just how scary it really was sometimes. There was no point in upsetting Mum and Grandpa unnecessarily. Tell them some of it, I thought, but there’s no need to tell them everything.

I was finding the keyboard slow to use now because my fingers were becoming very swollen. I couldn’t feel them, and they looked like a bunch of white bananas. I was doing all I could to look after them, smothering them with lanolin, but still the cracks came, still my cuticles split around my nails—what nails I had left. My hands were not a pretty sight, but I didn’t mind. I just wanted them to work, to be able to do what I told them to do—cook, tie knots, pull ropes, email.

I’ve never forgotten the morning I saw Cape Horn up there on the laptop screen at last. Sometime before I left
home I’d seen the movie
Master and Commander
, seen the frigate battling its way through ferocious seas off the Horn. It was terrifying enough sitting in a comfy seat next to Dad in the cinema in Hobart. Soon now I’d be going round the Horn myself, doing it for real, but Dad was still beside me. He was there in the boat he’d made for us, in the albatross that guarded us, and in my heart too. I took out
The Ancient Mariner
which by now had become like a Bible to me. It gave me new determination, a new courage every time I read it out loud.

Every time I spoke those words now, I felt that somehow I was living inside the poem, that it had been written just for Dad and me, just for this moment as we approached the Horn on the 9
^th
March.

Dear Mum, dear Grandpa, dear everyone. Feels like this really is the bottom of the earth down here. The sky up there is black with rain squalls and the wind’s screaming like I’ve never heard it before. this is not a funny place to be. don’t think I’ll hang about. Kitty 4 doesn’t seem to care though. she just bounces along, two storm jibs up twin poled, 6 knots, riding each wave like it was just a ripple. If this was a talking boat – bout the only thing she can’t do! -
she’d be shouting at the waves – bring it on baby, gimme more, see if I care, you think you can beat me? no way hosay! And you should see the waves she’d be shouting at. Bout 15 metres from bottom to top, so when you’re down in a trough and look up they look as if they’re about 50 metres. And they’re long, that’s what makes them different. They’ve travelled all around the world just to meet us here – aren’t they nice? aren’t they kind? – building all the time. Up to 200 metres long, I promise you. Awesome, magnificent, majestic, amazing, exhilarating, overwhelming (running out of adjectives so I’ll stop). They’re wave monsters that’s what they are, and when one decides to break it’s like an avalanche that goes on and on, and Kitty 4 does snowboarding then surfing through the middle of it, raging white water all around, the air snowing foam. So beautiful, so wonderful. Should be scary but it’s not. Too excited to be frightened, too much to think about, too much to do. And maybe I’m too Cretan to be scared, Grandpa!

And besides, I keep thinking that every wave brings
us nearer to the Horn. The Horn is dead ahead by my reckoning, only 230 miles to go – can you believe that? We should be going around it on Friday if all goes well. It’s strange, I’m not worried at all. Maybe that’s because my albatross is still up there, still with us. He hovers over the bow, like he’s leading us, like he’s showing us the way. Wind doesn’t seem to bother him at all. I mean why isn’t he just blown away? How does he do it? He looks like he’s playing with the wind, like he’s having fun with it, teasing it. He’s not just the king of the birds, he’s the master of the wind too. Against the black of the clouds he looks whiter than he’s ever been, white as an angel, a guardian angel. I keep saying it I know, but that’s what he looks like to me. Had the last of my sausages and baked beans for my supper. Got to go easy on the hot chocolate. run out if I’m not careful. One little problem, caught my little finger in a rope, think it’s broken so I’ve strapped it up. can’t feel it most of the time so that’s good. I can hear what you’re saying Mum. Yes, I’ll be careful. Got 9 more fingers. So no worries. Loving this. Love you. Allie.

Done it done it done it! Woweee! We’re going around the Horn and with dolphins too, and my albatross of course. I’m going to tell you how it was. I knew the Horn was there, but I couldn’t see her. Every time we climbed a wave in the last four hours I was looking for her, but she was never there. So from time to time, I’d go down to check the screen. The Horn was always on the screen but never where she should be when I went back up into the cockpit again. It was so so frustrating. Kitty 4 didn’t seem to want to stay on the top of a wave long enough for me to catch my first glimpse of land. Then I did. I whooped and yelled and sang and danced, well sort of, not a lot of room for dancing in the cockpit. And my albatross swooped down low over the boat almost touching me as he flew by. Then he soared up high and went off towards the Horn, to have a look I guess. He’ll be back.

I’ve been dreaming about this moment, Mum, Grandpa, ever since I first read about it, or did Dad
talk about it first, can’t remember. And now I’m doing it. I’m here. Kitty 4 is poled out, full main. No squalls about. West wind 15-20 knots. Got to change the flags soon, Chilean to Argentinian. Aussie and Greek one still up there Grandpa, looking a bit battered and torn, like me. But they’re still flapping away up there, like they’re really happy, really proud we’ve made it. Me too, me too. I’m flapping with happiness.

The rocks of the Horn do not look at all inviting – wouldn’t want to be any closer, black and jagged when you can see them through the sea mist. grey and grim and dismal. been so lucky with the weather. Not hard to imagine what this place can be like in a Force 10 when it’s really angry. Underneath us, the seabed must be littered with all those ships who didn’t make it, those who didn’t get so lucky. I thought a lot about that when I was sitting there half an hour or so ago, drinking a celebratory hot chocolate – who needs champagne when you’ve got hot chocolate?

I think I just had a moment I’ll never forget. I so wished you were with me, and Dad most of all. I was
just sitting there looking at the Horn and sipping the last of my hot chocolate when a shaft of evening sunlight broke through the mist and lit the Horn. It set her on fire and all the sea around her too. Never in my life saw anything so beautiful. Don’t mind telling you, I had a little weep. It was the joy of just being here at this moment, of being alive, grateful to y’all, to the Horn for letting us sail by, to my albatross for sticking with us, to dear old Dad who’s made it all happen and who’s been with me all through this and is here with me now.

I love this place so much I almost don’t want to leave it, don’t want the moment to pass. But moments always pass, don’t they? It’s passed even as I was writing this. Gone. I’d better be gone too.

I’ll be going up north towards the Lion Islands, just south of the Falklands, a little over 300 miles away. Stop in the Falklands for a few days, have lots of long hot baths – been dreaming of those – and lots of big breakfasts and a warm dry bed for a few nights. Been a bit lax on my washing lately – blame it on the
weather – whole plastic bags of it waiting. one whiff would kill, promise. So I’ll get all my washing done. Be so good not to be rocking and rolling every hour of every day, not to be banging my head all the time. Be good to see people again. Be good to be dry. And yes Mum I’ll do what you say and get my little finger checked out.