God help me, how many times have I chanted those words to myself in the past two months ?
How are we all doing?
At the end of 2013, I left Hong Kong destined for Hua Hin having set myself the task of finally finishing the book 'Tits on tour'. Today is January 12, and today marks the start of the writing process.
Some 7 weeks after I left.
I have not been idle.
I have also only just made it to Hua Hin.
The first 1049 kilometres were done under sail from Discovery Bay to Subic Bay in the Philippines.
In a 34 foot yacht, maned by only myself and a vastly superior sailor, David, our ship headed out on a bright blue day stocked to the brim with organic chicken casserole, chili spaghetti bolognese and english tea biscuits. There was to be another sailor with us, a legend of the sea I am told, but he was suddenly unavailable, having cashed his cheque...
There was mention of bacon butties everyday for breakfast and the idea that the one at helm would receive a cup of tea from the other on shift change.
The first bow breaking wave hit before we had passed Lamma Island, I was drenched...it was ' a wake up call to batten down the hatches'.
The first days sailing was steady, from memory, although the autohelm, a kind of auto pilot for boats, snapped off it's widget within hours.
There would be no relief, no set and forget, just the two of us in shifts.
We headed south-east. The swell lifted.
By the second day, the boat was pushing ahead at 6 knots in good wind and heavy swell.
For a smallish yacht, that is good sailing, but it was exhausting.
Large swell meant a constant battle for control of the rudder, there were many times when the boat literally surfed down the side of a large unbreaking wave, there was a LOT of water breaking over the bow.
As a less experiences sailor, my concern was that the water would fill the sails as we leaned heavily to the side, although my companion assured me this was less of a problem.
I just didn't want to be the one who had us floating sideways 2 days out of Hong Kong.
The sun set, and with it came the stars.
People in Hong Kong rarely see more than a few stars.
The first night away from the territory there were hundreds.
I had quite forgotten.
The second night there were hundreds of thousands.
The sky was white with stars.
I have never seen anything like it.
There are so many stars in our Universe that I am surprised we have named them all.
The sea offered up the treat of bioluminescence, the glow of algae as it churns through the ocean.
It fills the water with a magical light display for mere seconds before it disappears.
It is proof of life.
We were being smashed by waves (safely tethered to the boat) and being covered in bioluminescence.
It was a kind of 'sea blooding'.
Flying fish were everywhere, my fear of sharks not withstanding I was keen to see some wildlife.
I have come to the conclusion that the deep sea is mostly made up of flying fish.
That actually fly.
And there were insects !!! Butterflies, a hundred miles out, frantically fighting the wind heading God only knows where.
I have seen this before when sailing. I know they migrate, but holy hell, imaging a butterfly, heading out to sea with no land in sight. Where the fuck is it going? They fly low enough to touch. One rogue wave and they would simply cease to be, but nothing stops them. Off they go, on some demented butterfly road trip.
A random wasp appeared, flew around and left.
And flies. There were about 6 flies who took a break on the deck near me. I didn't have the heart to swish them away, they looked as tired as I felt, probably blown off course, grateful for a moments respite.
I knew the feeling.
The first night we had had to keep watch for Chinese fishing vessels, the second night, we were all alone.
Black clouds loomed, although in the inky blackness of everything around us it seemed more ominus that usual.
I love a good thunderstorm me.
I'm just not so sure about a thunderstorm 400 kilometres out at sea at night and alone at the helm of a wooden yacht.
In my exhaustion I imagined the giant clouds as skulls, the type you see as the 'dark mark' from the Harry Potter movies, or even as the large alien ships from The War of The Worlds.
I thought I could hear human voices mumbling in the waves.
The song ' Hawaiian roller coaster ride' from Lilo and Stich became my anthem.
I sang it to myself on constant repeat as I surfed our little boat down 16 foot waves I could only hear and feel, but not actually see in the blackness.
We were doing 2 hours on, two hours off, although neither of us wore a watch, so there was a fair bit of guesstimation going on.
I once took David off shift half an hour early, which he chastised me for, so I gave him an extra hour the next shift, which he chastised me for...
Both of us were bone weary, I was convinced that the nails on my right hand would come off, the feeling in them long having gone from the constant pressure of holding the tiller in such large and gusty seas.
We were being aided by charts and an app on iPad that gave us both a route and GPS support, we were checking in on a satellite phone, we were doing all right, although being inside the cabin was sick making due to the constant bombardment of the waves.
Sea sickness wasn't really an issue, although I did delicately puke over the side on day one, having prepared a lovely supper just moments before.
It's important to be a lady in these circumstances.
There was no time for tea, or bacon butties.
David reminded me to eat, he didn't want me to get weak, I was simply too tired.
The morning of the third day broke and I told myself I needed to do as he said, my mood was becoming foul.
Standing in the galley with a tin of baked beans in my hand I let go of the boat as a wave hit.
Inside the cabin it is not wide, but it was wide enough to me to be thrown 3 feet across the room. As it was happening I remember thinking " don't let this hit my hip", as I was already carrying a bruise there from an earlier encounter with the chart table.
I turned my body, and felt and heard the sound of a rib break somewhere in my lower back.
The sound I made had alerted my companion.
Something was clearly wrong.
My first thought was that I had broken my back, then I thought I had shattered a kidney.
Then I just sat down and quietly went into shock.
Having recently completed my First Aid certificate, I knew I needed to keep myself warm. The trouble was I could hardly move.
The boat was still being tossed about, David could not leave the helm, I could not climb the stairs out of the cabin.
I sat very still, managed to reach a tablecloth that had been stowed, and I think I went to sleep for a bit.
I quite honestly can't remember now, funny how the mind does that.
In hindsight, I was only out of action for 24 hours. At the time, it really was an eternity.
Poor David was now left at the helm, sailing us through the weather, we were more than halfway there. The discussion as to whether or not to turn back came up, The Philippines was closer.
I demanded Air rescue, he told me it didn't work that way and that it would take them a day anyway, we weren't sinking and to hold on.
I found a 5 litre bottle of water and a packet of cream tea biscuits, and some panadol I had in my bag.
They ran out that night.
"If you are going to die, Wendy, it will either come as a complete surprise, in which case you won't know it's happened, or it will come as a blessed relief after some suffering, so stop worrying,"
I thought a lot that night.
About a number of things.
Some of them not very nice.
I had urinated where I lay, I was simply in too much pain to get up and go to the head, and I was delirious with fear and exhaustion.
I had managed to check for blood, there was none, and for that I was grateful, but I was not convinced that there was no internal bleeding.
When you are suffering, and I am prepared to say I was truly suffering, the human condition is reduced to a fairly simple place.
It brings life into some clarity.
What do we really need?
Water.
Rest.
Warmth.
Food.
Light.
Light is important, I had no idea how much.
Alone in the dark, frightened and in pain, all I wanted was light.
To be able to see something.
I thought about political prisoners, and how alone they must feel.
I thought about them not knowing if anyone cared.
I regretted that I had not kept up my Amnesty International membership.
I regretted that I had not done more to help others who need to see light where there is only darkness.
I realised I did not know my childrens phone numbers, because I had come to rely on technology to do my thinking for me.
I wondered if I could just will myself to stop breathing.
I know that sounds very dramatic, and I do not give into fear often, but we had found the edge of that envelope.
Dawn came.
David came inside having not left the helm for countless hours.
He had rigged the boat so that it couldn't move, the wind had dropped, the sea was calmer, he needed to sleep.
I needed to get on with it.
I broke into the first aid kit, with the aid of the light of day, and found more panadol.
I stood up, ate, waited.
Strength came.
Within 24 hours of feeling certain I was in serious danger, I was able, by sitting in a certain way, and making a kind of splint with a water bottle, to get back on the helm.
Eventually we discovered the Tramadol ( a rather powerful painkiller) that had been packed away, and life took a turn very much for the better.
We had lost some momentum.
Through sheer exhaustion David had taken us North for a while, then South for a bit....we were headed East, but by day 4 we were again making good time, 7 knots, the sea was calm, the weather was warm, and apart from very weird encounter with a security vessel late at night, all was well.
The gas platforms out at sea send enormous plumes of smoke into the sky, so you know, and the only oil platform we saw was the biggest, ugliest, fucking thing imaginable.
If you go anywhere near them, they will run you down.
Do not muck around with oil platforms.
Fishing boats travel in packs, people who fish on boats far out at sea are made of sturdy stuff.
Everytime you eat anything that comes from the sea, remember that some serious manual labour went into getting that to your plate.
As we came closer to people, plastic bags appeared in the sea around us.
As did Boobies, the birds, not mine.
They come right up close and check you out, flying around and around the boat, then when they have had enough entertainment, fly away.
In the ocean, flying is the thing.
David saw dolphins, I was too busy dying to get above deck to see them.
There are things marked on Ocean charts as ' Magnetic Anomalies', and you are advised to avoid them.
Quite what the hell is inside them, I have no idea.
Thresholds to other Worlds?
Did anyone else see Pacific Rim?
The final days sailing, David made us bacon butties, we drank tea.
The sea was flat, we motor sailed into warm shallow waters.
The sunrise was as beautiful as you would imagine.
The boat smelt like a portaloo, the cabin looked like a field hospital, we sat together at the helm and watched the flying fish escape the bigger fish.
There is always a bigger fish.
Within a day I was being x-rayed, yes, just the one broken rib and some severe contusioning that, in all honestly, I am sometimes still aware of.
Perhaps I am a pussy, but that really, really hurt.
But pain goes away.
What I learned, what I saw, what I now know for sure can never be taken away from me.
The Earth is huge.
Well, OK, not compared to space, but compared to me and you.
And it was there before us, and will be there long after we are gone.
We need to live lives that are good, and to not hurt each other.
We need to stop people who hurt other people.
We need to scare ourselves on occasion, just to be certain that we are still here.
Being afraid is OK, because the worst that can happen to you is you will die and if you are going to die, it will either come as a complete surprise, in which case you won't know it's happened, or it will come as a blessed relief after some suffering.
So stop worrying, and get out there and enjoy your life.
W.
