By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong (42 page)

I was looking at my GPS. ‘Do you know how fast we’re going?’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘Four miles an hour.’ It was suddenly very depressing. ‘Do you know how far we’ve got to go still?’

‘Nope.’

‘Two hundred miles. Two hundred miles at four miles an hour. Jesus, Mungo, how long is that going to take?’

Now he did sit up. ‘How long was the flight from Timor?’

‘About two and a half hours.’

He lay down again.

It just went on and on, hour after hour with waves at four metres: we’d climb one side and roll down the other and all we could do was stay in the cabin and withdraw emotionally. All conversation stopped and like a pair of zombies we just lay there trying to ride it out.

The longer it went on the more I could feel that this was not only testing physically, it was testing on the mind. I found myself beginning to think we’d never see land again. Finally, though, some semblance of humour broke out.

‘When we hit the beach I’m going to have a meal of earth,’ I said aloud. ‘I’m never going to buy a boat; I’m never going in a boat. In fact I doubt I’ll ever go swimming again.’

At three a.m. I was awake and went up to the wheelhouse where as usual Warwick was on watch. It didn’t feel so bad now. Perhaps I was just getting used to it, but the waves didn’t feel as big and everything seemed a tiny bit quieter.

‘How are you, fella?’ I said.

‘Good. The weather came good. Did you notice?’

‘Yeah, it doesn’t feel so smashy.’

‘There are no guarantees for the morning, though.’

‘No?’

He shook his head. ‘We’ll be crossing what they call the hundred metre bank, shallower water. It could get rough again but it won’t last too long.’ He pointed to the computer screen. ‘That lumpy bit there is Bathurst Island.’ He tapped a mass of land north of the Australian mainland. ‘If we go in and hug the coast we’ll be in calm water.’

‘Let’s do that then, shall we?’

‘Why not. We’ll cut the engine, put the sails up and do a few checks. See how much water we’ve taken on, see what needs repairing and check the engine. Can’t do it in this weather, turn the engine off in this - it’s too dangerous.’ He nodded to the galley. ‘We’ll shut her down, have a good feed, then it’s sixty miles to Darwin.’

‘Only sixty?’

‘About that: I reckon we should be in around four, maybe four-thirty on Thursday morning.’

‘Fantastic.’

‘The last stretch, mind, when we come out from the point, that’ll be rough as hell.’

My heart sank. ‘Worse than this?’

‘Maybe not quite as bad.’

‘Is this really bad, Warwick? I mean do you think it is or are we just a couple of Poms being a bit pants?’

He laughed. ‘I tell you what, Charley, it’s bad enough that we’ll need to repair what’s broken; fix a few leaks.’ He paused and scratched his shaven scalp. ‘How bad it is from Bathurst Island will depend on how we hit the current. If it’s going in, we’ll go faster but it will be rougher - we’ll be pushed nose deep in the waves every inch of the way.’

I cannot tell you how good it was to switch off the engine and get the sails up. When dawn broke we could see Bathurst Island, our first glimpse of Australia - the final continent on this marathon journey. Mungo and I were on deck, the sun was out and we were in calm seas for the first time in days.

The whole atmosphere changed. In calm weather the boat oozed relaxation, the laughter returned, the conversation and the jokes. With the sails up we were still moving but there was no sound other than the breeze and the cry of gulls. The sea was flatter and in the distance tuna were jumping as if in mockery at our line.

I could feel the tension slip away, the tightness in my shoulders and the ache in the pit of my stomach. I felt as though we’d almost made it and I realised what we’d achieved.

‘Can you believe this?’ I said to Mungo. ‘That’s Australia over there. Think back to when we got on the bikes at my dad’s house. I can’t believe we’ve actually made it. In less than twenty-four hours we’ll be in Darwin.’

27

Recovery of Friendships

At quarter to seven on the morning of Thursday 10 July I stood on the deck of the
Oelin
as we motored into Darwin Harbour.

‘Mungo!’ I called out. ‘Mate, we’ve done it. We’re in Australia.’ I punched the air and danced a jig on the deck. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes! Yes!’

I could hardly believe it. After all that planning, the weeks and weeks of travelling, we’d finally made it all the way to Darwin. It was almost three months to the day since we had left London, but my God had it been worth it.

The harbour was sheltered by a stone wall, the sea as flat as it had been all the way from Bathurst Island. We had expected those last sixty miles to be really rough, but when we came around the point the ocean had been like a millpond. No longer confined to our berths, Mungo and I had sat on deck, chatting away as the sun went down.

I looked out to sea for one last time. It had taken six days to cross, three of which had been unbelievably difficult. On that last section before Bathurst Island the swell had risen to well over four and half metres and we’d been in troughs so deep there was nothing but a wall of water surrounding the boat.

‘I’m so glad we did this,’ I said. ‘I’m so glad we didn’t chicken out.’

‘Congratulations, Charley,’ Mungo said. He shook my hand and slapped me on the back. ‘It’s been a pleasure travelling with you.’

Russ and Anne were waiting for us on the wharf.

‘How are you?’ Russ called out.

‘Not bad at all, thanks.’

‘I won’t ask what it was like.’

As soon as we reached the wharf I jumped down and sprawled flat on my stomach, hugging and kissing the concrete. I could have quite happily eaten it. Dry land at last. For a time back there I’d wondered if I’d ever see it again.

It was only after we’d cleared customs and I had a moment to myself that it really hit me: I’d actually made it. Sitting on the bed, looking out of the window, it was as if no time had passed. I was back in Dad’s drive, throwing a leg over that cherry-red bobber, friends and neighbours waving us off, the rain, the lump in my throat and the wobble in my chin. Now here I was in Darwin having been through all those countries by any means possible. A wave of emotion washed over me and the tears welled up - I couldn’t help it. After three long months on the road, it was a bittersweet moment. I thought of my family, all my friends, and all the support they gave me, and amid it all my heart went out to Françoise, my great friend in London. As we’d pulled into Venice on the
Orient Express
I’d found out she was terminally ill, and from what Olly had said on the phone, she didn’t have much time.

The journey wasn’t over yet, of course - we still had to get to Sydney. But the Timor-Darwin crossing had been the hardest leg. During the really bad thirty-six hours or so, there had been moments when I’d almost gone mad I was so miserable. Halfway across I would have given anything just to get off the boat and never set foot on one again. But looking back now, having weathered the storm, I wouldn’t change places with anyone.

 

We spent the night in Darwin, and the following morning had to figure out a way to get the nine hundred miles south to Alice Springs. After considering various options we decided to rent a Wicked Bus - second-hand camper vans that you see all over the place. Each one is individually painted by a bunch of bikers, and people use them as an inexpensive way of getting around. It seemed like the perfect vehicle to take us into the outback. Someone had painted a sign on the dashboard - ‘Don’t fucking swerve for kangaroos or you will roll bad’.

I think being at sea for so long must have affected my sense of direction because driving out of Darwin I got lost. There didn’t seem to be any road signs and we ended up at a dead end and then a shopping centre car park. Eventually Mungo wound the window down and asked someone.

Finally we found the right road and left Darwin. This was thirsty-looking country with dust in the air, the tarmac bordered by skinny trees and banks of yellow grass. Glancing at the map, I was struck once again with how vast Australia is - almost as big as the US.

Once I’d re-established my sensory GPS I realised how good it was to be on the road again. One way or another we’d been at sea pretty much since Borneo. I drove with one hand on the wheel, lost in my thoughts as the road became a limitless line of tarmac disappearing into the distance. Alice was a two-day drive away and we planned to get there tomorrow evening. We took our time - the van wasn’t fast and the roads were pretty clear. We hit some dirt for a while and had to wait at an outback crossing as a humungous train rattled by. Back on the black stuff we got out of the van and with music blaring be-bopped away in the middle of the deserted road. Demob happy, the lot of us.

Ironically the fact that the team had been split for the few days it took to cross from Darwin turned out to be a good thing. Up until that point we’d been on the road for three solid months and it was the first real disagreement. Russ told me he’d opted to fly largely because he felt that given the tension, three of us in such close confines might end up with someone going overboard or something (at least metaphorically). The reality was that a little time apart had allowed things not only to cool down, but be placed in their proper perspective. Often once a situation has come to the fore friendships can be all the deeper for it. That was certainly the case with Ewan and me in Africa; and now the three of us were together again we were getting on like a house on fire. The bus journey was an absolute scream; we chased trains, played music, made up the craziest songs. We’d accomplished something special here and the spirit was fantastic.

That night we stopped in a town called Daly Waters, which was close to an aerodrome the Americans used as a staging post in World War Two. Pulling in, I saw a red traffic light and automatically stopped. We sat there and a couple of people came out and gave us a funny look. Then we noticed a sign that said the light was the most remote in Australia and we realised it was always on red. That about typified the place, a clutch of mad buildings half-hidden in trees with the heat of the sun beating down on the dusty road. We wandered into a crazy-looking pub crammed with all sorts of memorabilia, bank notes from across the world, road signs, even bras and knickers hanging from the ceiling. Across the road there was a ramshackle shop with a wrecked helicopter half buried in its roof, while next door there was a couple of petrol pumps with a sign that said: ‘Fill your car up and come over to the pub to pay’.

The rumble of a V-twin grabbed my attention. As I turned I saw a guy roll up on a big old cruiser.

‘Hello, mate,’ I said. ‘Nice bike.’

He peered at me. ‘Charley - what are you doing here? Loved the series, mate; very inspirational. Is Ewan with you?’

‘Not this time. I’ve come from Ireland, heading for Sydney.’

‘Right, right. So what bike are you on?’

I explained about ‘By Any Means’, all the forms of transport I’d been on, and how I’d just crossed from Timor on a boat built from Kalimantan ironwood.

‘All the way from your dad’s place, eh? Sounds great,’ he said, nodding. ‘Name’s Steve McGrath by the way.’ Steve explained that he was doing a lap of the country with some old friends. They’d been talking about it for forty years, and now they were all retired they’d finally got around to it. They were staying the night in town and a little later we met up for a few beers and a chat. We settled down at the back of the pub in what they called the ‘outback servo’. A local guy was playing guitar on a small stage, singing everything from Johnny Cash to ‘Waltzing Matilda’ with a stream of filthy jokes thrown in.

There were four of them on the trip - Steve and his childhood friends Jack, Terry and Chris. There was a fifth member of the gang but unfortunately he’d been diagnosed with leukaemia and was due to have a bone marrow transplant. They had been on the road a month already and were having a whale of a time. Tonight was no exception - we talked bikes and travel, we talked life, and if they overheard another conversation at another table they’d jump right in. It was a great evening.

That night the temperature plummeted and I was cold for the first time since I could remember. In the morning we hooked up with the boys again and rode pillion out to the old aerodrome, where they showed us a display of photos of the place and let me ride the length of the runway on a couple of their bikes. Chris told me that having gone their separate ways since school, the trip was ‘a recovery of friendships’, which I thought was a really nice way of putting it.

Leaving town I forgot to fill the tank and had to go back. Of course there was nobody at the pumps so I trotted over to the bar.

‘Just fill her up then tell us how much it was,’ the girl serving told me.

Wonderful - her perfectly laid-back response reflected our mood exactly, and I knew this was the ideal way to end the expedition.