Rowboat in a Hurricane (3 page)

Since finishing my master’s degree in molecular biology five years before, I had worked in the biotechnology industry. Recently, though, I had made a major career change, leaving my job in biotech to work as a consultant. But when I expanded my endeavour from rowing five thousand kilometres across the Atlantic, which would take three months, to rowing twice that distance and cycling another thirteen thousand kilometres from Moscow to Vancouver, which would take a year, I had effectively put my career on hold. I shifted my efforts entirely to expedition preparations. The next few weeks were a whirlwind of activities—finding an appropriate boat, researching the weather patterns for the Atlantic Ocean, ordering a miscellaneous array of required equipment, and continuing the fruitless search for funds.

NOW, SEVERAL MONTHS
later, as I gazed at the deep blue ocean from the shores of Portugal, the intense preparations leading up to this moment came back to me in a blur. My mind had been perpetually occupied with logistics, financial troubles, and worries about Colin’s safety. Even after we had united in Moscow I had been overwhelmed with the labour of cycling twelve hours a day, filming our journey, and continuing to coordinate Atlantic logistics from roadside phone booths. Up until this point, I had been so busy getting everything ready that I had little time to ponder the reality of living in a rowboat on a vast ocean.

Cycling across a continent had been an intimidating challenge for a computer-addled, office-bound molecular biologist. Now, with salt spray misting my face and endless blue in front of me, the enormity of the upcoming voyage began to terrify me.

2
ROWBOAT PREPARATIONS
   
IN LISBON

T
HE NEXT MORNING
we went to the marina to wait for the truck that was delivering our rowboat from the northern tip of Scotland.

I had found the rowboat—a six-year-old boat made specifically for rowing on oceans—for sale on the Internet. The style, a Woodvale Pairs class boat, was designed by two British boat-builders in
1995
, and had since proven to be the most popular style of ocean rowboat. It was made from quarter-inch plywood and epoxy—an ideal combination of materials that made the boat both lightweight and relatively strong (the whole boat weighed about
350
kilograms empty and
800
kilograms fully loaded).

The rowboat was just over seven metres, only slightly longer than a two-person ocean kayak, although considerably beamier and deeper. It had two tiny cabins. The forward one (no bigger than a kitchen cupboard) would be for storage, and the aft cabin (about the size of a small closet) would become our living quarters. Sandwiched between the two cabins was an open deck containing two sliding rowing seats positioned in tandem. The below-deck space was divided into many sealed compartments, the rationale being that if one compartment was holed by hitting a reef or an iceberg, the flooding would not spread throughout the boat. I found this comforting until I realized the
Titanic
had had the same feature. Designed with similar principles to a lifeboat, the Woodvale Pairs boat is also self-righting. Theoretically it can endure horrific weather, flip end-over-end, and still remain afloat.

At Doca de Belém, we reserved a spot for our boat in the marina’s dry-dock compound, and booked their crane to unload our boat.

“I can’t believe the boat is finally arriving,” Colin said, a wide grin plastered on his face, as we emerged from the manager’s office.

It was a huge relief. The boat had been late because of problems with the freight company. But now the Portuguese truck driver rolled back a section of the truck’s roof and unfastened the strapping that secured the boat. A staff member from the marina manoeuvred the yard crane over the truck. The driver slipped two canvas straps under the boat and trailer, and with one fluid motion the unit was transferred out of the truck and onto the concrete pier.

“Maybe you two are a little crazy,” the rotund driver said, “but you have guts.” He clapped me on the back. “My wife and children will not believe me when I tell them what you are doing.” At least that’s what I think he said. He was speaking Portuguese, and I could make out only “crazy” and “wife.”

Once the truck was gone, Colin and I cheerfully pushed the trailer and boat to the spot we had rented in the dry-dock compound.

“You’ve picked a great boat,” Colin beamed, as he explored the interior of the vessel. “It’s well constructed. Good attention to detail. See these hatches? They’re British-made and top of the line. When I was on my sailboat, I could only dream of equipment like this.”

“It was built by professionals,” I said. “The survey showed no structural problems, but there are a few things that need work.”

“No problem, we can do it,” Colin said.

GETTING AN OCEAN
rowboat ready for a crossing is a challenging affair. From the research I had done in Vancouver, I learned that preparing for an ocean row usually takes two years and a quarter of a million dollars. And that is for voyages half as long as ours. We had two weeks and dwindling credit limits.

Colin and I left our cheap hotel and moved into a vacant shop at the marina, where the manager kindly allowed us to stay for free. Our new concrete abode became our temporary expedition headquarters, allowing us to store and organize our growing pile of equipment and supplies. Best of all, being a stone’s throw from our vessel allowed us to work from dawn until bedtime on repairs.

We unpacked and inventoried the equipment that had come with the boat: sea anchors, harnesses, a desalination unit, solar panels, and a
VHF
radio, among other things. Many of the products in the first aid kit had expired or were of dubious integrity, but we found a few useful items, such as shark repellent powder and sutures.

When I had travelled to the north of Scotland to test the rowboat before buying it, I had left a duffle bag full of expedition equipment in the boat. But now, as I peered inside the bag, my heart sank.

“My fleece jacket is gone,” I said with surprise. “So are our rowing gloves, and the Helly Hansen marine shoes. Even the lamb’s wool I packed for making seat covers is missing, and the Santa hat to celebrate Christmas.”

“At least we have our rowboat,” Colin said, trying to console me.

I searched the cabin frantically for the most valuable item I had left on board. Sure enough, my laptop computer was gone. We had planned to use it to send out website updates, communicate with the media, get weather forecasts, and track our
GPS
position so that people always knew where we were.

“I can imagine why someone would steal a computer, but Christmas decorations and rowing equipment?” Colin said.

There was not much we could do; we didn’t have money to buy another computer, and it was still too early in the season to buy new Christmas decorations.

BEFORE WE DID
anything, we made lists—endless to-do lists of chores and equipment. Not only did we need to purchase all the tools and items to repair our boat, but we needed to pack our vessel with every item required for an unsupported three-to-five month journey.

Lisbon, with three marine stores conveniently located near the marina, is well suited to boaters. We became regular customers at each one. We peppered the staff with endless questions. “Can you order a connector cable for our radio?” “Do you sell
GPS
units?” “Where can we get a diaphragm for our bilge pump?” “When will the antifouling paint come in?” “Where can I find eighty litres of rubbing alcohol for my cookstove?”

At the hardware shops, we filled several shopping carts with fibreglass, resin, screwdrivers, hammers, sandpaper, buckets, and paint. We made so many unusual purchases—at least for tourists—that both our credit cards were automatically suspended multiple times for suspicious activity.

Finally, with a respectable set of the most affordable hand tools we could find, we set about repairing the boat. We scrubbed every inch, inside and out, with soap and steel wool, removing several years of grime and paint in an advanced stage of peeling. We repaired damaged areas with fibreglass strips and polyester resin. We fixed leaky hatches and rebuilt the defunct desalination unit. Beneath the water line we brushed antifouling paint that would supposedly keep our boat free of barnacles, seaweed, and other growth. We sanded and painted the rest of the boat red and white in the colours of the Canadian flag. We even created the outline of the maple leaf using masking tape and red paint. We then used vinyl lettering to display our website address and the boat’s name,
Ondine.
The name was a tribute to Colin’s first boat, an eight-metre sailboat he bought as a teenager and in which he spent five years exploring the South Pacific.

WHILE WE READIED
our boat, Mother Nature graced us with perfect weather. Ocean breezes cooled us while the sun shone from a cloudless sky. Ornamental palms around the dry-dock compound rustled but rarely swayed. Children piloted tiny Sabot sailboats in the water below, while barges and freighters navigated the depths farther out. Though we rushed to and fro, only breaking for quick meals, we appreciated our idyllic, sleepy backdrop. This late summer reverie wasn’t going to last, though. The arrival of fall would inevitably bring degrading weather and heavy southwesterly winds.

We had studied several marine pilot books and were well versed in the prevailing weather patterns. From about April until mid- to late September, the weather off the Portuguese coast is at its best. During this period, the Portuguese trade winds—gentle south-moving winds and currents—create a situation that would be ideal for taking us to the lower latitudes, where we would continue to encounter favourable conditions. From October to March, the weather becomes less stable, and heavy winds from the west and southwest are frequent. Sustained winds from the west would probably overpower our rowing efforts, and our plywood vessel could be wrecked along the numerous cliffs adorning Portugal’s coast. We had to depart before the Portuguese trade winds faltered. It was now already September
15
, however—the date we had hoped to leave by. Although things were moving forward steadily, we still had a lot of work to do.

Even if we could travel across the ocean during the ideal time window, we based our weather predictions on recent historical records, and there were signs that change was afoot. Three weeks earlier, Hurricane Katrina had decimated New Orleans. It was the sixth-strongest Atlantic hurricane ever recorded, a category-five hurricane on the Saffir-Simpson scale. According to
The Federal Response to Hurricane Katrina,
a White House report issued in February
2006
,
1
,
330
people died in the storm, another
2
,
096
people were still missing five months later, and
US
$
96
billion in damages was caused, making it the costliest hurricane in history. At the time it occurred, we were shocked, not only by the devastation and loss of life, but by what was shaping up to be a very bad hurricane season. Katrina was the eleventh named storm—the average is ten—and the second category-five hurricane that year. Category-five hurricanes occur only about once every three years; only in two other years,
1960
and
1961
, did two category-five hurricanes form. We were troubled by this, but even worse, we were only halfway through the hurricane season, and we had no idea what the next three months would hold.

Compared to their predecessors, today’s hurricanes are like steroid-enhanced bodybuilders. The same month that Katrina flexed her muscles, a scientific report in the journal
Nature
by Massachusetts Institute of Technology meteorology professor Kerry Emanuel, one of
Time
magazine’s one hundred most influential people, showed that the power of hurricanes has increased nearly
70
per cent since the
1970
s. Storms are more intense and last longer. The once-rare monsters, category-four and -five hurricanes with wind speeds over
210
kilometres per hour, are increasingly common; their numbers have doubled in the last thirty-five years. And hurricanes are not only increasing in intensity. In a July
2007
study published by the Royal Society of London, researchers concluded that there are twice as many Atlantic hurricanes now compared to one hundred years ago.

The big question, of course, is why. A number of scientists suggest that climate change has played a role. Elevated ocean temperatures and the related increase in humidity (warm air holds more moisture) caused by global warming both increase hurricane intensity and duration. In the last thirty years, ocean surface temperatures have jumped
0
.
5
degrees Celsius. Seawater captures heat from the air, which settles not only into the surface waters (the top
30
metres) where temperatures of at least
26
.
5
degrees Celsius are needed for hurricanes to form, but as deep as
450
metres. Because of this increase in heat at such depths, less cool water is available to come to the surface and stop a hurricane’s growth.

I hoped this expedition would help me to better understand the environmental challenges the ocean was facing, but the heightened risk of encountering a hurricane was not something I had prepared for.