Chapter 3
A solo voyage. The first day at sea was not yet over and I was really alone, without a boat. My heart rate accelerated. My eyes, I’m sure, must have grown large and round with shock as I surfaced to find myself completely alone. At that moment I knew, with absolute conviction, that I was facing death.
There were no visible reference points. The fog, rain and breaking waves obscured the Port Clarence LORAN navigation tower. I was equipped and dressed for temporary immersion, not for prolonged exposure to Subarctic sea temperatures. I wore a T-shirt, long-sleeved wool shirt, thick wool sweater, long johns, corduroy pants, heavy wool socks, insulated rubber boots, a padded flotation suit and a life jacket. My head was covered with a woollen watch cap. The layers were enough to keep me warm under most circumstances, but they were a weighty burden in the sea.
I had no idea in which direction to find land. No idea whether I could last long enough to get there if I could see the shore. It was the most frightening moment of my life to that time. When a solo sailor gets washed off a boat, there’s no one to shout, “Man overboard!” No one to throw a lifebelt. No one to heave a safety line. No mortal saviour to lend a helping hand.
Far too many small-boat sailors have fallen, or been knocked, overboard. Those who have survived the experience, few of whom were solo sailors, consider it to be the most terrifying of events. There is a feeling of absolute desolation, of complete, all-consuming loneliness. I knew that unless I were rescued within a short period of time—a virtual impossibility in my situation—my life expectancy was severely limited. My intestines twisted themselves into knots. To maintain as much warmth as possible I assumed the HELP (Heat Escape Lessening Posture) stance, holding the inner parts of my arms tight against the sides of my chest, crossing my hands together in front, and pressing my thighs together with knees bent and raised up to protect the major areas of heat loss: my chest, armpits and groin. My flotation suit and thick life jacket assisted greatly, keeping me buoyant, reasonably stable and high in the water. For some minutes—they felt like hours—I bobbed up and down with the erratic motion of the cross-seas. Though the fear of my predicament, almost palpable, was more or less under control, I was painfully aware that each second I spent in the water reduced my chances for survival.
Up on a crest, slapped by breaking waves and battered by the wind, I searched limited horizons for a glimpse of yellow before settling back into another trough. Water found its way in at the neck of my Mustang suit, where I had the zip down a couple of centimetres. Although the suit legs were tight around my ankles and over my boots, more water seeped in. It was bitterly cold. A chill crept malignantly through my bones. I had a reasonably firm grip on my emotions, but fear danced around me, a taunting, gloating, mocking spectre, prodding me into submission, sure of victory.
Unlike others faced with a sudden demise, there was no flashback to my youth. No sensation of life passing before my eyes like a fast-forwarded movie. There was only disbelief, a detached dread of the unknown, and strength-sapping cold.
Before I left home I had listed the many perils of the expedition. Opposite each I had plotted the necessary reactions to avoid the danger or handle the situation and get myself out of trouble. I had recognized that my greatest potential enemy throughout the voyage would be the weather. Its unpredictability would decide each day’s events.
The vague possibility of being swept off the boat by a bad-tempered wave had occurred to me. The combination of going overboard and suffering a broken lifeline at the same time had not come into my calculations. The unexpected had happened. Realistically, the only person who could save my life was me—and I didn’t have enough tools at hand. If I could survive the next hour, there was a chance I might be swept ashore: a slim fortuity, nothing more. First I had to concentrate on surviving each minute. The hour could take care of itself.
Turning every few seconds, willing something, someone, to free me from my crisis, I caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of my eye. Instinctively I raised a gloved hand in greeting. Safety was almost within reach, unless the storm was simply playing with me. Driven by a furious gust, Audacity slid off the foaming crest of a breaking wave and skidded down to my level. Her bow thumped me unceremoniously on the side of the head as she drifted by. I reached out for her as she passed and missed. Tried again and caught hold of something.
I hung there, my fingers gripping a safety line like bloodless vices, my body and legs dragging in the sea. I tried to scramble over the pontoon but, reluctant to let go of the line with both hands, didn’t have the strength to pull myself aboard. The next few minutes are blurred in my memory. I was in the sea, preparing myself for the next life; then I vaguely remember fighting my way over the gunwales into the boat and landing headfirst in a heap, half on the seat, half under the foredeck.
How long I lay there, more or less floating in a deep pool of water, with Audacity being thrown about by the weather, I have no idea. It was probably only a few minutes. When I recovered sufficiently, I sat up on my seat. The boat was wallowing, more than half full of Bering Sea. The windshield was missing, torn off by the wave. My blue tarpaulin, which normally kept the tanks and equipment between my seat and the motor dry, trailed over the side, held only by a single cord on one corner. I recall the effort of dragging the tarp on board and stuffing it out of the way under my feet. There was nothing to keep dry anymore. Everything was soaked.
With Audacity bucking wildly, I bailed as much water as I could, a slow, tedious process. I must have stood up at some point and started the motor, but I don’t remember doing so. Some time later I was in my seat and Audacity was riding the waves, under power again. The expedition, against all odds, was still afloat. We had been offered a new beginning. I took it gratefully.
Completely disoriented, I had no idea in which direction I was travelling. The tower was hidden. The clouds and fog were so thick it was like night. My compass, which normally hung from a lanyard around my neck, was missing. I clutched at my throat, wondering how the lanyard had snapped. It hadn’t; it was still there. The compass had swung around until it hung down my back, between my shoulder blades. Quickly I pulled it to the front and checked my course. The needle wandered from left to right, describing a vague arc. I chose the midpoint as being roughly magnetic north. Its line pointed over my right shoulder. That meant Audacity was aimed more or less for King Island. I had been completely turned around after my impromptu swim.
My lifeline dangled limply beside my right leg, prompting me to reattach it. The shackle on one end was bent open, a tribute to the power of the sea. Rather than splice on a new shackle out there, I tied the damaged end to the steering column. The shortened line restricted my movements only slightly.
Ready to go again, I pushed the gear lever forward and spun the wheel, changing direction 180 degrees. As we topped a wave I stood on the seat, well aware of the risk I was taking, to search for some sign of land. Up ahead, and off to port, there was more white water than to starboard, so I reasoned that land must be in that direction. Opening the throttle wider, I powered Audacity in a semicircle, pointing her bow to the northeast. Keeping my head and shoulders as low as possible to protect my wet body from the icy wind, I pushed on. Steering clear of obvious shallow patches, where the shoals turned grey water to white, I strained to maintain sight of the thin line of land to starboard of my bow. With the wind hurling spray in my face and the waves tossing us carelessly from one to the other, it wasn’t easy to keep a straight course. The cold was numbing, but I reasoned I was well enough protected by layered clothing to stay alive.
The only possible site for a safe landing was in the large bay east of the long, low spit of Point Spencer. My eagerness to be on solid ground led me too close in. The sea, beneath the white, turned from grey to brown. The waves were shorter, steeper, more violent. The water was shoaling fast. I turned away, back to the Bering Sea, and resumed a more northerly course, directly into the worst of the wind.
Audacity rocked viciously as we lurched from trough to wave, from wave to trough. Too timid to speed up and attack the wind and waves, I kept the propeller rotating just enough to maintain headway. The motion was sickening as we rolled from side to side and from end to end. Carefully, a fraction at a time, I eased the throttle forward, increasing our speed marginally. Our stability increased a little. I opened the throttle wider, gaining confidence. We settled into a rhythm that gave me some degree of control over Audacity’s movements.
Keeping a close watch on the breaking surf toward the shore, I began a turn to pass the most northerly point of the spit about a hundred metres out. This put us beam-on to wind and waves, a precarious route that caused me many anxious moments. With Audacity running at no more than five knots, I rode diagonally up and down each wave until I judged we were within the confines of the bay. A quick right turn in a trough, and a sudden increase in power from the motor, took us south with the wind.
The fog cleared a little and, directly ahead of us, I could occasionally see the shadowy outlines of the tower’s base. The dark grey facades of a few buildings began to emerge against the increasing light. At my back, blowing straight out of the north, the wind ripped into us at 30 knots. I didn’t care. After my huge fright, I was heading for shore.
The waves in the bay were considerably smaller than those in the open Bering Sea, but they were still big enough to give me anxious moments. Finally, picking my landing spot, I cut the motor, tilted the engine to save the prop and surfed in. We hit hard on a flat beach of dark gravel. Audacity ground to a sudden stop, and the parade of following waves broke eagerly over her stern. I released my safety line and jumped over the bow to land awkwardly, half on the boat and half on the shore.
Without my additional weight, Audacity began to slide back off the beach as the waves washed around us and the undertow sought to reclaim her. I hung grimly on to the mooring line and managed to tie her to a half-buried tree trunk, itself a casualty of the sea. Each successive wave pounded at Audacity’s hull, forcing her sideways, grinding her bottom against sharp stones. I had to get her farther up the beach. The only solution was to unload her and drag her clear so the motor was protected.
On the tundra, perhaps 20 metres inland, an empty shipping container lay with its front wide open. It was a perfect place to stow my gear for a while. Pulling my two kit bags out from under the foredeck, I carried them to the shelter first. One bag contained clothing, the other food supplies. A quick check showed they were both dry inside, thanks to my taking the precaution of lining them with plastic before departure. I stowed them far in the back of the container. My cameras and film also went with the first two bags. Then came the fuel tanks, heavier and harder to handle alone. One, I noticed, had a significant crack across one corner. At least half the fuel had leaked out. I made a mental note to seal the hole with silicone before I continued.
I left the tanks and motor near the open door, well away from my food and clothing. A box of spare parts and plastic containers of motor oil joined them. My sleeping bag and tent, wrapped together in thin plastic garbage bags, were soaked where the protective covering had torn. I tossed them on the floor to be dealt with later. The motor was heavy, difficult to lift under normal circumstances. Somehow I managed to unbolt it, lift it off the wooden transom and drag it to the shelter. One of my two thermos flasks, which contained tea and usually sat on the seat beside me, was missing. I pulled out the seat to check underneath and peered under the foredeck, to no avail. It must have been washed overboard with me.
Once I had the weight of cargo off her, I dragged Audacity sideways until she was clear of the waves. Opening the self-bailing ports on the fins took care of the accumulation of salt water. Twin fountains of water spouted vertically, reaching knee-high under the pressure. As the level in the boat subsided, the jets gradually weakened to nothing. Determined not to be parted from her again, I ran a second line from the stern to another heavy log. Nothing short of a full gale would shift her after that. Satisfied Audacity could come to no further harm, I covered her with the tarpaulin. Hurrying back to the sanctuary of the container, I sat on the floor for a few moments to rest, my chest heaving, and to consider my next moves.
There was no denying I was badly shaken. For the moment I had no wish to be anywhere near salt water or the storm. I tried talking myself into continuing. The hollow voice that echoed inside the container cracked. It sounded dreadfully old and frail and close to tears. It was nothing like my voice.
Outside, the waves, cheered on by the wind, kept the storm alive. How long would this one last? I wondered. Would I have the courage to go on when it was over—if it ever ended? I sat there, hugging myself for support, for a long time.
All my equipment, apart from the boat, was in the dry container; only Audacity was in the open, and she was as safe as I could make her. Convinced everything was secure, I forced myself to my feet and went to pay a courtesy call on the neighbouring Coast Guard station.
All I wanted was permission to camp in the container until my supplies dried and the seas calmed down. I was not prepared for the welcome proffered by the inhabitants of that remote outpost. I knew I was cold. I hadn’t realized I was shivering uncontrollably. I related my story, asking if they would mind drying my sleeping bag for me.
“No problem,” came the answer. “Come in. You look like you could use a hot shower.”
“That would be great,” I replied.
I went back to the container to collect my sleeping bag, tent and kit bags for drying. My fingers were so cold by this time (my gloves had been soaked through long before) that I couldn’t get my wet clothes off. Willing hands helped me and pushed me under a hot shower. Dressed in clean clothes, waiting for my equipment to dry, I spent the rest of the evening telling the men of my adventures. Boosted by the camaraderie, my mood changed. Once again I felt I could succeed.
Much to my surprise, my audience insisted I stay the night as there was a spare bunk. With no possibility of continuing my journey until the storm died, I accepted willingly. An additional bonus was being able to make a collect phone call to Penny.
Penny’s reaction to the accident was predictable—a combination of shock, horror and considerable relief that I was safe. I told her the whole story, leaving nothing out, and asked her to relay it to my sponsors and the news media. She accepted my instructions without question. Only later, long after I returned home, did I feel some guilt for loading her with that particular burden. But no matter who I told the story to, Penny would have heard of my misfortune within hours, if not minutes. Hearing the story first-hand, albeit over the telephone, had to be better than listening to someone else’s possibly inaccurate report.
When I went to inspect Audacity early the next morning, I found loose items of equipment scattered along the pebbles and tundra all the way from the boat to the container. Among them were plastic bottles of oil, spare gloves and both paddles. No creature had disturbed my possessions; the only footprints were mine. In my rush to get the boat and myself out of harm’s way, I had dropped vital items that should have been carefully stacked in the container. I must have been more exhausted and shaken when I beached than I knew.
———
The Coast Guard station at Port Clarence is a lonely spot—almost as lonely as the men stationed there. The nearest settlement of any size is Teller, about 30 kilometres to the east across the bay, which doesn’t offer the occasional diversions healthy young men need. Port Clarence has an airstrip, a few buildings and the tower. That’s it. A signpost, crafted from wood and the weather-bleached vertebra of a whale, stands near the runway and bears the telltale inscription “Port Clarence, population—gross and horny.”
One of the drawbacks to landing at a Coast Guard station by boat is that the residents have a vested interest in any visitor. Going back to sea is, to some extent, dependent on their approval.
“Don’t be surprised if one of the officers insists on inspecting your boat and equipment,” a seaman warned. “They don’t have a lot to do here.”
The weather took the matter out of the Coast Guard’s cap- able hands for much of that day. The wind howled across Point Spencer and Port Clarence. The rain sheeted down. The sea crashed on the shore. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Warmly clothed and draped in my plastic rain poncho, I wandered the station grounds and the airstrip much of the morning. Walking, waiting—getting frustrated.
When I tired of the exercise, I sat in the shelter with my supplies and repaired the damaged fuel tank while I brewed a mug of tea. The rain cascaded past the broad opening, all but obscuring Audacity and the bay behind her.
Soon after midday the rain slackened for a while, tailing off to a light drizzle. The wind continued out of the north, and the waves shattered on the beach. In the late afternoon, while I was collecting the rest of my newly dried possessions, an officer asked me if I planned to stay that night as well. “The berth is still available, if you need it.”
Comfortable as the station was, my thoughts were fixed firmly on the sea. “Thanks,” I told him. “I really appreciate the hospitality, but if I get a break in the weather, I’m gone. If not, I’ll take you up on it.”
I knew I was fortunate to be alive and was admittedly scared, but after suffering a mind-jarring experience, the only cure was to go on as soon as possible. The longer I delayed, for whatever reason, the less likely I was to start again. As soon as I could leave, I would.
Three tower-riggers, all from Texas, had come to Port Clarence on a regular maintenance visit. They were effectively marooned, as I was. They couldn’t work. I couldn’t go to sea. Seeing me by the boat, they came to pass the time. The hull was full of water again; pebbles and sharp grains carried by the waves worked ceaselessly at the seams.
“I’ll have to get that lot cleaned out,” I told them. “That stuff will rub holes in the air chambers very quickly.”
“Normally you can see the lights of Teller from the end of the runway,” one of the riggers said. On that day the lights on the tower beside us were obscured by fog. Teller was far from sight.
With nothing better to do, the three Texans pitched in to help me clean the boat. We deflated the hull and removed the floorboards and seat. There must have been 50 kilos of gravel inside. The boat doesn’t weigh much empty, although it’s heavy for one man to handle effectively. With four people it was easy. Between us we flushed her out, picked her up, overturned her, shook her, then flushed her out a second time. When I was satisfied there wasn’t a grain of sand left to grind a hole, we put her back together again. The rain resumed its energetic assault, trying to refill Audacity as we worked. Ignoring it, we took turns pumping until the hull was once more stiff and solid, ready for action. Together we replaced the fuel tanks and motor.
The wind eased off and changed direction, and the sea reluctantly withdrew, renouncing its former belligerence. Where there had been whitecaps there were now long, low swells. The fog persisted, but it was not as thick. The heavy rain lessened again to no more than a drizzle. We moved Audacity off the beach into the shallows, checked the motor mounts once more, reloaded my supplies and tied the tarpaulin down securely. The thought of a warm bed in the heated building behind me tugged at my conscience. I shook off the temptation. That would be far too easy. It was time to get under way. A long journey loomed ahead.
“Thanks for the help, guys. I’m ready to roll.”
Getting back on the sea was easy with a host of willing assistants. We dragged Audacity into deeper water until she floated freely. I shook hands all round and sat in the boat as they pushed me out until I could lower the propeller and start the motor. One of the riggers had given me a bearing from the tower to Teller.
I had planned to go there to refuel, even though it was well out of my way. He repeated that it was possible to see the lights from the station runway some nights. Privately I had doubts about the bearing. It certainly didn’t agree with my chart. I wondered if he hadn’t confused Teller with Brevig Mission.
I followed the stated course until Port Clarence vanished in the fog. Being on the move felt good, although I was probably more cautious than ever until I found the rhythm again.
Teller was just about due east of the station. My initial course was north-northeast. As soon as land on the north shore of the bay came in sight, I made a quick decision. Teller was east, Cape Prince of Wales to the west. The Bering Strait was also to the west. Although the fog was clearing, ominous black clouds were building over the land behind Teller. I decided against the detour. My primary need was to get as far west as possible before turning northeast. We changed course for the Bering Strait.
Without the windshield I was much colder than I had been the previous day. Wrapping a black woollen scarf round my neck and face, I settled myself as low as possible until I acclimatized to the new conditions.
The land on the Seward Peninsula was higher than that around Port Clarence. From my lowly viewpoint it appeared to be about three metres or more above mean sea level. Erosion by wind and wave had carved and gouged the terrain into small bays and miniature headlands. A thick white line, running almost parallel to the sea about halfway up the nearly vertical slope, drew my attention. There was nowhere to land safely for a closer look, so I stayed a little offshore, out of danger, slowed right down and studied the phenomenon. It looked like a layer of ice covered with a layer of brown and topped by a thin stream of dark green. The combination resembled a giant cross-section of a multilayered cake with green icing.
The white stripe was permafrost, which remains frozen year round. It covers unfrozen ground (the brown layer) and is itself covered by the tundra (the thin green stream), which thaws in summer and freezes in winter. The Inupiat use permafrost as a natural outdoor freezer in which to store fresh meat. Although it has definite uses, permafrost has its drawbacks too. Buildings erected on it tend to be stable during winter. In summer the same buildings will start to lean drunkenly as the upper layers of frost begin to melt. Engineers have solved the problem in many Arctic locations by building on stilts, or piles, thereby keeping heat away from the earth.
The land I was passing was desolate. There was no sign of life, human or animal. No trees or bushes. Nearly 100 years before, in a bitter winter, Lieutenant Jarvis and an Inupiat guide either walked or ran behind dogsleds when they took the route along this barren coast toward the cape. For me there was no snow, just the habitual fog swirling back in, thicker than ever. I felt as though I could travel for days, weeks perhaps, without seeing another soul.
Slowly I cruised Audacity as close to shore as I dared. The light swells off the Bering Sea lifted her and lowered her. Waves breaking on the beaches were the only sound apart from my engine. Concerned we might run aground, I raised the motor to shallow running. My chart showed we were east of Lost River; I could only guess how far. Seeing a reasonable stretch of beach, where the higher land lay far enough back to allow me to pitch a tent, I shut the motor down and let the sea slide us gently ashore. Turning the boat bow-on to the sea, I ran out a bower anchor and secured the stern with two lines that I ran up the beach and tied around convenient rocks. Audacity sat with her bow rocking to the motion of the waves and her stern tight on the beach. There was nothing to do but wait for the fog to lift.
A brew of hot tea, and the flame from my Coleman stove, warmed me for a while, but I couldn’t relax. My chosen position was not an ideal site for a camp. If the wind kicked up, forcing heavy seas on shore, Audacity would be in danger and the tent could be swept away. Deep gouges in the permafrost, where earlier waves had done their work, suggested such an occurrence was eminently possible. For an hour I paced up and down within sight of my boat, my hands in my pockets. A score of paces one way. A score the other. Idly I examined the permafrost, pressing my bare hands against it to feel its icy texture. It was colder than the earth above, but not much.
I climbed up a conveniently ridged section to stand on top of the bank. There was little to see. Inland, the ground cover was a pale green surrounded by white. Below me, Audacity’s shape merged with the indistinct beach. Beyond, the sea had all but disappeared.
Late in the evening, miserable and cold, I heated a can of thick stew for dinner. The fog persisted. My thoughts strayed back to a warm bed. Rather than risk being swept off the narrow slip of beach in the night, I decided against the humble cheer of a tent. Instead I chose to recline across Audacity’s front seat and sleep for a few hours. First I lengthened the mooring lines to compensate for the tide. Satisfied the boat was safe, I tended to my own simple needs.
The seat was just about adequate for a wilderness bed, though not as comfortable as I would have liked. It wasn’t long enough for me to stretch full length unless I dangled my feet over one pontoon and my head over the other. Curling in a ball didn’t work. It was far too cramped. Reluctantly I draped a tarpaulin over me to keep some of the damp away, spread myself over the pontoons and tried to rest. I woke up often, probably every few minutes, and looked over the side to see if we were still attached to shore. Audacity, however, behaved herself perfectly, responding leisurely to the movement of the sea, only occasionally bumping her stern on the beach.
With the early morning came a lightening of my Stygian world. Visibility was improving. Cold and stiff from an uncomfortable night, I needed a mug of hot sweet tea to get me moving efficiently. Instead, yawning with fatigue, I went ashore and hurriedly released my mooring lines. Throwing them on board and tucking them under the tarpaulin, I pushed off and scrambled over the transom to take charge.
One quick pull on the cord and the ever-reliable motor burst into life. Staying within a few boat-lengths of the coast, I felt my way hesitantly toward Cape Prince of Wales. My mouth was dry, so I sipped cold fresh water from a plastic bottle. I missed my morning tea.
Ahead, almost hidden by the rapidly dispersing fog, loomed the great mass of the York Mountains and Cape York. My ears, already attuned to the motor, strained for any unusual sound. I couldn’t afford to run into trouble when I was under the shadow of those forbidding cliffs. For the next hour at least there would be little opportunity of putting ashore. The Johnson ran smoothly with a constant comforting beat.
Expecting to encounter downdrafts off the cliffs and restless seas off the cape, I increased my distance from the land. It was a wise move. The wind blew from the southwest, pushing the sea before it. Both collided with the immovable cape and were tossed back disdainfully. Paroxysms of white exploded from the base of the cliffs as angry spray reached far and wide. Even where I was, far enough out to miss the worst of the turmoil, the seas limped all over each other as incoming waves slammed into waves echoing off the cliffs. Audacity was bounced about like a shuttlecock until we were clear of the cape.