Tough Girl Podcast

Fellow adventurer Sarah Williams invited me to take part in her Tough Girl Podcast ... here's the result!

(I have to admit I did listen through it and laughed at my own jokes, so fingers crossed you'll find it funny and interesting too!)


 

Ramsgate, Holidays & The RNLI

On the 29th of April 1770 the renowned mariner Captain James Cook, landed HMS Endeavour in the tranquil waters of Australia’s Botany Bay, nine years before he met a sticky end at the hands of locals in Hawaii. In early June 2013 I found myself in life-threatening difficulties, by a very different Botany Bay, under chalk cliffs near Broadstairs, in north-east Kent, England. Like Cook, my thirst for adventure was nearly the end of me.

I've rowed the Atlantic twice, but my latest effort to row around the entire British coast was floundering in poor weather, just a few days out of London. I was aboard a small wooden rowing boat with another woman and we were attempting a record breaking first. Unfortunately our situation led to a night-time call to the coastguard who instigated a rapid rescue by a crew from the Royal National Lifeboat Institution.

Our journey until that point had been slow but uneventful, in fact we were still reeling from an up close and personal encounter with a seal in the Thames Estuary. But a stiffening wind swept us off course and towards the shore, as we made our way into the English Channel. Our rowing boat was drifting dangerously close to the rocks and breaking waves poured frigid water over the bow, and subsequently over us, as we struggled to make headway just metres from the coast.

We’d put down an anchor, but it had slipped, as had the second one we’d tossed over the side. Strong winds and counter currents scuppered any attempt to row away from land and into the safer, deeper waters. You can imagine our relief, in the pitch black of night, when the lights of a rescue boat bobbed towards us. The team towed us to the historic port of Ramsgate. A brief, unanticipated 'holiday' ensued. I was left feeling rather foolish, but incredibly grateful to our RNLI saviours, who I thought I'd not see again.

Yet almost a year later, I'm back. I've heard that a small group of Ramsgate RNLI men have received an award for an incredible combined 150 years of volunteering.

“You don’t look as stressed as the last time I saw you!” jokes Lance Oram, who crewed the Inshore Rescue Boat that night in June 2013. According to their record the team received the emergency call at 1.16am and were ready and in the IRB by 1.27am. That’s eleven minutes from bed to boat.

“We leave our socks in our boots", says Eric Burton, one recipient of the long service award. “And we aim to be at every incident within 30mins.We used to set off loud rocket flares, or maroons, so everyone in town could hear them, and they’d get out of the way to let crew pass. Now people don’t know when we get the call outs.”  Despite this the community connectedness remains key, with many of the current volunteers representing a long line of family members who have joined the service. Since the RNLI took charge in the mid-19th century, the volunteers of Ramsgate have saved the lives of more than 2400 in local waters, from major shipwrecks to those floundered on the shifting Goodwin Sands.

I feel all the more humble, looking back on my somewhat foolish rowing incident. But Lance is gracious. "I support daft adventurers all the time! I run the pilot boat for cross channel swimmers. We're here to help everyone."

As Lance shows me around the complex equipment in RNLB Esme Anderson – that’s the Ramsgate offshore lifeboat- I think of the Ramsgate men - and more recently women - who have passed down the duty of saving lives at sea from generation to generation. We may sometimes forget it, but we all still need each other. Without the volunteers of Ramsgate, total strangers to me, I would probably not be speaking to you, now.

Meeting Jonathan the Tortoise

Plantation House in St Helena sits proud amid gumwood trees alive with chirps and whistles. It is the official residence of Mark Capes, Governor of the British Overseas Territories in the South Atlantic.  

Large brown hillocks which dot the pristine lawns. It's only when my guide Joe Hollins, the sole vet on the island, bangs on a large metal bowl, that all becomes clear. The hillocks rise and trot surprisingly swiftly towards us.

Meet Jonathan, Myrtle and Fredrika, three of five giant tortoises who live on St Helena. Their shy friends David and Emma are hiding in the rough.

"He is virtually blind from cataracts, has no sense of smell - but his hearing is good," Joe tells me. At 182, Jonathan may be the oldest living land creature.

Jonathan is a rare Seychelles Giant. His lawn-fellows hail from the Aldabra Atoll in the Indian Ocean. Aldabra Giants number about 100,000, but only one small breeding population of Seychelles tortoises exists.Continue reading the main storyMany victims of the slave trade - sick and dying - would spend their final hours on the shores of St Helena. And then there was Napoleon, in exile. Its inhabitants, known as Saints, share this complex past, and ethnic traits of Africans, Europeans and Chinese.

Nobody knows why Jonathan ended up in St Helena. During the 17th Century ships could contain hundreds of easily-stacked tortoises, like a fast-food takeaway. In the Galapagos islands alone around 200,000 tortoises are thought to have been killed and eaten at this time. How did Jonathan avoid this fate?

Maybe he became a curio for Hudson Janisch, governor in the 1880s. Thirty-three governors have come and gone since then, and nobody wants Jonathan to die on their watch. Mr Capes is certainly keen "that he should be treated with the respect, attention and care he surely deserves".


A photograph taken in 1882 shows Jonathan at his full size, and it can take 50 years to reach that physical maturity. The years since haven't always been kind. Tourists would often do whatever it took to get "that" photo. Now, a viewing corridor runs along the bottom of the lawn to keep overzealous sightseers at bay. It was a huge privilege for me to get so up close and personal.

Jonathan loves having his neck stroked. His head extends out from his shell to a surprising length. He snaps for his food - bananas, cabbage and carrots - with some ferocity. Joe almost lost the end of his thumb and has resorted to wearing thick gloves.
"He doesn't mean to nip me," he says, "he just finds it difficult to locate his food."

Tortoises scrape at the grass with their horny beaks, made from keratin, like nails.
Blindness made it hard for Jonathan to find the right vegetation, and due to malnutrition Jonathan's beak became blunt and soft, adding to his problems finding food.
Now there's a new feeding regime, in place where Joe delivers a bucket of fresh fruit and vegetables every Sunday morning.

With this extra nutritional boost Jonathan's skin now looks plump and feels supple.
His beak has become a deadly weapon for anyone attempting to shove a carrot anywhere near his mouth. And he can belch.

Tortoises may be slow but they are noisy, especially when they mate: "A noise like a loud harsh escape of steam from a giant battered old kettle, often rounded off with a deep oboe-like grunt." Joe reassures me it's another indicator of good health. Unfortunately, Jonathan's trysts have not produced young - thus far.

Though giant tortoises like Jonathan can live up to 250 years, the community has already drafted a detailed plan for when he finally pops his shell - dubbed "Operation Go Slow".
It will ensure all runs smoothly when the inevitable happens, in fact his obituary has already been written.

It has also been decided that stuffing Jonathan would be a rather morbid and outdated thing to do. The Saints would like to raise funds for a life-size bronze statue of him.

When he goes, Jonathan will be mourned by friends and admirers on St Helena and around the world.

But to me, he is also a symbol of a remote society, soldiering on in genuine isolation.

Thoughts on St Helena

In December 2013 I visited St Helena for the first time to film a documentary about the island and its people. The chaps at the 'St Helena Wirebird' blog asked me some questions about my visit... here are my answers.

We know that you visited St Helena to film a documentary. What aspects of the island were you looking at and how did the island compare to your other experiences?
As a team we were keen to portray the island in their best light, to see what they had to offer the modern traveler and to meet and talk with locals to gain insight into island life.

I’ve been lucky enough to visit some pretty remote places, so I suppose these experiences have shaped my expectations, which is not a bad thing as I didn’t have a lot of time to prepare for the trip; in fact I only had two weeks. I’d like to think I visited the island with a completely open mind, and I’m really glad I did. I’d be kidding myself if I thought I’d got under the skin of the island’s culture, but the welcome and hospitality were humbling.

The journeys and adventures we enjoyed on St Helena were all the more exciting and engaging because we had to establish new friendships with the people who helped us with them. If I’d had the opportunity, and we weren’t trying to get so much done, I think I would have spent more time pottering around Jamestown. I loved hearing the Mynah birds singing in the early evening before they went to roost in the trees. I also wanted to spend more time walking. Simon, the cameraman, did a lot of filming of the landscape, having seen some of the footage I envied some of the places he was able to go and see.

Part of the St Helena experience is obviously the historic voyage on the RMS St Helena. As a seasoned sea woman, having rowed across the Atlantic not just once, but twice, how did you find the journey on board?
The RMS was an epic adventure in its own right – and I’m not just talking about the food! It took a while to get used to the pace on board, and everyone jokes about the ding-dong calls to dinner… and cake …. and beef tea! What I loved about the ship was its unpretentiousness. You get to know the passengers and crew, and they get to know you. Aside from gaining half a stone I really couldn’t fault it as one of the very best ways to travel.

You’re a person who has an impressive travel history of visiting remote places! How did St Helena compare?
I have to say, with hand on heart, it’s one of my favourite places in the world. I love the islanders’ spirit, the sense of community and the extraordinary landscape. I may be a bit odd but I also appreciate the simple way of life.  There aren’t hundreds of shops selling everything and anything. You have to make do, and make the most of what you have. I can see why many want to tell the world about the island, but at the same time some want to keep it secret for fear of spoiling it. I just feel incredibly privileged to have been able to visit, and stay for such a long.

You relish a challenge. How did you fare conquering Jacob’s Ladder?
Who’d have thought a flight of stairs could be so difficult! Simon, the director, and I went down them and didn’t go back up again – how misguided! I went down twice in the same day! Both of us struggled to walk for ages! Going up with some of the Girl Guides was really good fun, even though I should have picked a better time – 11am was a little bit too hot. The girls were up in a jiffy but I have to admit I took my time… I was still recovering (at least that’s my excuse!). The view was amazing and it was great to see Jamestown in full swing for Christmas.

The biggest news for St Helena at the moment is obviously the opening of the airport in 2016. Did you see the latest developments of it and what do you think this will mean for the island and particularly the Saint community?
I was lucky enough to visit the airport site on more than one occasion. The complexity of the development is quite mindboggling! As to what it will mean to the Saints, well I can see the benefits – medical support, work opportunities, both in St Helena and abroad, and also the potential for increased tourism. But I can also appreciate the drawbacks that are perhaps difficult for outsiders to understand. I spoke to the Head Girl at Prince Andrew School and she explained her reticence. She told me that the voyage on the RMS prepares you for the gentleness of the island, it gives you time to think about the journey and appreciate the remoteness the islanders’ experience. When tourists arrive on the plane they will just step off without that appreciation. I can see her point. The trouble is the airport is coming, and I’m not sure everyone is prepared for it.

And the all-important question… any plans to visit St Helena in the future? Perhaps the Governor’s Cup or the St Helena Marathon to test your talents?
I’d love to come back. I’d also love to bring my husband one day too. If we have the time and the opportunity we’ll do it, but I’d like him to travel there by the RMS. We can jump on a plane any day of the week!

Is choice good?

I watched The Wright Stuff this morning and they were discussing whether having too much choice is good for you. I was surprised to find out that phycologists shared my view- basically it's not!

I'm not one for reverting to a communist state, but on more than one occassion the entire contents of my wardrobe has been unceremoniously tossed on the bed in exasperation. On such stressful mornings I can't help but think we all need a uniform then they'd be one less thing to worry about!

I distinctly remember my time as a 6th former sat in the library leafing through huge tomes filled with every possible university course in the country. I was left wondering whether landscape gardener or dentist was more my cup of tea.... oh and then I'd spot small animal care and my whole decision making process would be thrown into disarray.

The thing is we have too much choice, and we mistake it as freedom. It's what distinctly seperates the first world from the third. The opportunity to buy more stuff then we could ever want or need, and the possibility of taking one's life in an infinite number of directions seems to be a necessity in our modern society and we have embraced it with vigour. The thing is does it make us happy?

As I sat in the library I remember worrying myself silly. What if I made the wrong choice? This could be the defining moment in the crossroads of my life. I plugged for theatre, but would small animal care have made me happier? You definitely get to squeeze lots of guinea pigs and what could be better than that?!

Think of a box of chocolates, not the Forest Gump one; but an actual one. When it's full the choice is overwhelming. We change our minds a hundred times before plugging for the hazelnut one. What if there were only three chocolates.... hold on this is a ridiculously bad analogy...  who am I kidding? I'd eat the whole box and the three after that too. What I'm saying is ... take the cereal aisle in a megasized supermarket as an example. Does standing there choosing between a hundred different brands of cereal make you happy? If they only had cornflakes would you buy them and just get on with the rest of your life?

I'm convinced choice isn't freedom. At best it gives you a sense of power over your own destiny. At worst it brings doubt and dissatisfaction. 

I'm doing my best to battle through the overwhelming choices in my life, but I'm really beginning to believe that less is most definitely more.

Success is ...

The Guardian published their 2013 MediaGuardian 100 this week and it struck me how much we seem to enjoy these made up lists of seemingly successful and influential people. As I look at my own currently rather dreary bank balance and wildly fluctuating freelance portfolio career (!) I'm beginning to wonder if I'm successful. If I am, then what does that look like? If I'm not, then what's the secret?

It seems to me that these lists are nearly always about earning a shed load of money, being married to someone with a shed load of money, being the CEO of a big old company, or being somewhere in line to the throne. I obviously fail on all of the above, as does the vast majority of the world's population. With this in mind can any of us say we're successful? With prerequisites like these I'm beginning to question whether these lists are motivating or just a way to inspire envy and dissatisfaction.

If we continue to measure success by affluence or position it leaves very little room to feel worthwhile within the context of our own life choices.  What if our sphere of influence is only amongst our friends (Facebook ones included!) and family? What if we never make it past middle-manager, or shop floor assistant? 

Feeling slightly demoralised by all this I've decided to do a little experiment .... something of a pick me up. It's nothing new really, just some positive affirmation, a bit of a hug for the soul! I've decided to do a 'Success is .... ' photo collection. Everyday, for as long as I can be bothered, I'm going to take a picture of something I think has been successful - nothing to do with money, power or fame, just little wins that make me feel happy. My first thought was a picture of my washing line. I can't help but take pride in getting the distance between the clothes just right, with all the socks matched. But I decided to take this one instead...

It's a little DIY kit for kids to make an apron out of a tea towel. Doesn't sound like anything I usually get up too. In fact it's not remotely like planning a difficult and dangerous expedition, but craft is something I really, really enjoy. So I've put this kit together to give to a friend and her young daughter. For me - a success! I've also set up a Pinterest page where I'll post my daily 'Success is...' pictures.

So, if like me you're somewhere in the middle of the World Top 7 Billion List, then perhaps you can like my Pinterest page? But don't worry if you don't ... it's successful anyway!

Sally 

Memories of Clipper

As the yachts competing in the Clipper Round the World Race 13/14 make their way through the English Channel my right thumb begins to ache! In May 2010 I was lucky enough to jump aboard 'Singapore' as a legger - a crew member who takes on a Leg rather than a 'Worlder', who rather obviously goes round the world! 

During Leg 7 we were set to race from Jamaica to New York, before shooting off to Nova Scotia, across the Atlantic to Cork, before heading to Holland, then home to Hull. By all intents and purposes we were novices, but by Jamaica the worlders we old hands, and we leggers eager not to let the team down. 

Like all expeditions there were plenty of ups and downs. The new 2013 crews will be experiencing many of them right now. Seasickness will hit first, followed by exhaustion, panic and possibly a couple of accidents. Even with the excellent training provided by the Clipper team it's not difficult to imagine the chaos some crews will experience in their first few days at sea. The professional skippers may even be thinking..."What the hell of I got myself into!?" 

My own race had it's fair share of disasters - a dismasting, a grounding, several injuries, a couple a which were very serious - in fact I dislocated a toe and fractured my thumb (off the back end of the Isle of White, how exotic!) There were shredded sails, man-over-boards and broken steering columns. Onboard politics were a minefield, some crews were at breaking point. It's life-changing, and not always for the right reasons. 

As an ocean rower I felt at ease with whatever the seas could throw at me, but the relative complexity of the yacht, certainly in comparison to a rowing boat, and the constantly changing dynamics of the crew were at times extremely tough. Imagine eighteen people squashed into a floating caravan!

But one of my fondest memories was sharing a five hour nightshift sat on deck with a chap called Heston - nicknamed for his remarkable likeness to the bespectacled Fat Duck chef. We'd not had much of a relationship before that night; in fact the worlders clique was at times difficult to penetrate. As Heston had won the converted title of Watch Leader (aka. second in command) he was often to be found standing behind the wheel, lighting a rolly deciding whether it was time for a sail change. 

As our track across the North Atlantic demanded very little but careful helmsmanship, I sat out under the sails staring at the stars, trying not to get too cold. To my surprise Heston took a seat beside me, and we launched into a "What chocolate bar am I thinking about?" game, which left us laughing hysterically for hours! 

We didn't speak much after that, there just wasn't a suitable moment. Keeping the boat moving tends to take over. But it was one of those shared experiences that always brings back a smile. Somewhere in the middle of the ocean we were debating whether Fry's Turkish Delight really counts as a chocolate bar or not. 

Anyway, here's a post I wrote whilst aboard the good ship Singapore. It'll give you an idea of what it can be like on board. 

Do follow this year's race, it's really is an incredible adventure. If you want to see the yachts, they'll be sailing back into London next summer. 

www.clipperroundtheworld.com

***

We’d spent all morning battling hard to make it to the front of the
 fleet, only Cork and 1000 miles of ocean stood between us and a race
 win. Although still very early on, in fact this was our second day at 
sea, the crew were in top spirits. I think we were all secretly gloating
 at our early success.

The winds began to fill and the white horses were out on a gallop, Jim 
called time on the medium weight spinnaker. We’d changed spinnakers a 
hundred times before, perhaps that was our downfall? Maybe we’d become a
 little complacent, perhaps we needed to take a little more time, do a
 couple more checks? Buoyed up with enthusiasm ‘B’ Watch scattered across
 the deck manning winches and gripping guys.

It happened so quickly, I didn’t even realise we were in trouble until I saw the foot of the spinnaker hit the water.  We’d already dragged a huge body of it through the boom and onto the deck ready for a quick dispatch down the companionway. The guy rope taunted and we couldn’t hold the kite any longer and back it slipped inflating into this menacing bubble billowing out from behind the mainsail.

Jim was glued to the helm bellowing instructions, cursing as the kite filled with water. With all our might we could not get the guy back through the boom. The halyards and guys slithered off into the ocean creating an enormous octopus, which swam menacingly off our stern.

A spinnaker can sink a boat, it can pull you over and under within seconds. I have a healthy respect for their power. Even after a month’s sailing I’m still filled with trepidation when we fly one. So much can go wrong, a Chinese gybe and suddenly you’re in the drink.

The octopus was beginning to tear, I remember seeing the first rip and naively thinking “If we can get it in now a bit of Dacron will do the trick! A couple of stitches and we can get out of this one with our pride intact.” But like the dress on a Bond girl the seams began to unzip. Huge sections of the kite torn apart slipping away into the waves.

Halyards were flogging, Jim was swearing, crew were dangling precariously over the guard rail desperate to catch hold of a tentacle in an attempt to bring it into the boat. The awesome power of the wind and waves scuppered any attempt to tame the creature. I stood helpless on the pushpin watching as a section disappeared under our keel a wrapped itself neatly round our rudder.

We lost steering.

‘A’ Watch were starting to appear on deck, still crumple-faced and bleary-eyed from sleep. I can only imagine what horror they witnessed as they crawled out of the companionway. Being in the thick of things you can’t take in the full picture, the carnage that had unfolded about the ship.

Jim yelled to drop the main, with no steering and a thickening wind we couldn’t control the sail as it tumbled down towards us. Half of it made its way over the side, the other cascaded all over the port deck trapping crew and ropes alike.

“We can’t just look at it!” cried Jim. “We’ve got to get the bloody thing in!”

This was our Moby Dick, a mighty beast that seemed to elude every attempt to capture it. Crewmate holding on to crewmate as bodies reached
 well over the side to grab fabric or rope.

Singas began to breach, pitching and rolling in the swell. I didn’t see it but Jim must have discovered the reason for our demise as what remained of the kite found its way onto the deck, tugged by ten or more exhausted crew. There was barely any sail left, just tattered shreds no amount of Dacron was going to repair.

It took a while to clean up the mess, tidy the lines, release the rudder from the guy and shredded kite that had made its way under our keel.

Jim called us to the cockpit; we sat their glum faced and knackered. A couple of the lads joked but they were nervous giggles like laughing at a funeral. Jim, in his usual understated style rallied the troops.

“Well we got ourselves in a bit of a pickle!”

He went on to explain that a knot in the lazy spinnaker sheet had caused our catastrophe. He dangled the evidence in front of us. It wasn’t a knot anyone of us would tie. It’s seems if there is an opportunity for a rope to tangle and knot itself it will. The lazy sheet had caught itself around the block therefore not allowing the kite to run free. There was no way the crew could pull against a kite still attached to the other side of the boat.

I think ‘B’ Watch still felt guilty. We skulked downstairs to our bunks wandering if there was anything at all we could have done. I personally felt strange about the fact that it was partly my responsibility to take photographs of the event, it’s what ‘Media’ crew have to do, to be apart from the action and document the moment. It must take a very different personality from my own to be able to disassociate oneself and become voyeur instead of participant. I didn’t even think to get the camera. So it is my hope that this blog gives you that picture that I wasn’t able to take.

Oh, and less than 12 hours later the lightweight spinnaker blew. ‘A’ Watch were on deck and the calamity started all over again!