The tide nearly had me on the rocks by Lia Ditton

The tide nearly had me on the rocks. I was coming in from the wrong side of Rame Head, attempting to pass through a river which linked Whitsand’s bay with Plymouth Sound, which in reality does not exist. In my early morning slumber it was frighteningly real. As if in the dream scenario I too was half asleep, only at the last moment did I equate Shockwave’s proximity to the rock with disaster. Water tore around it, drawn into the mouth of the river. I had super imposed on the cove of Whitsand’s Bay, the entrance to Knysna along the Garden Route of South Africa. No insurance company in the world will take liability for any vessel passing through its jaws. It is a gauntlet, where breaking waves mask submerged rock and the current rips through. I only had one chance at throwing ‘Shockwave,’ my chartered 35ft Shuttleworth Trimaran, through the tack; one chance; one.

I hurtled into Cawsand bay past the yacht club boat brimmed with friends. On September 18th 2005 my second solo transatlantic back from the OSTAR finish in Newport, America was over. Unscarred by Irene, Katrina or hurricane Nate, I owed a lot to providence. In the calm of the bay, I questioned my own sense of drama. Was it really that fierce out there, gusting 35kts? I wanted the wooden yacht club boat to, ‘Go 100m out there!’ to see the fear on their faces as it had passed across mine. I had flown the middle hull three times. Three times I had been on the verge of capsize, with a jib that refused to furl, no autopilot, sea room or physical reserve. The local BBC waited at the dock; there was champagne and food, dry clothes, and my desire to sleep began to weigh heavily. Sitting on the edge of the bath, I remember thinking, ‘I can sleep now,’ and this was the most wonderful thing I could think of. Gone was the sound of rushing water, gone was the fear of being run-down. I was clean and salt-free and all around me was quiet.

I only own pieces of my experience from Brest to Plymouth Sound. Forty two hours, with snatches of sleep and my memory is vague. I barely noticed the breeze lift from under 10kts to 25, running down from Lands End the night before my arrival. I kept Shockwave on the edge of out-of-control, over 15kts of boat speed but safely under 20, even shaking out a reef when ‘Shockwave’ laboured to 14! My tolerance for kamikaze speed, within relative margins of safety, had trebled and if I was going to capsize, at least I would be closer to land! I relied on the adrenalin to keep me awake. The English Channel is no place to stop for a nap without a mast head light and a depression spiraling in. Finally I had learnt to race. The autopilot power failure alarm bleeped every few minutes. It startled me awake from micro naps I was taking unknowingly. ‘I am going to ring you every three hours, for two minutes,’ I explained to friend Dave in California. It was the only way I could foresee making it through the night. I was beginning not to care. The dawn broke and the overwhelming desire to sleep eased, but helming was more demanding now. It was a classic Catch 22. The breeze was starting to peak at 35-40kts, sending ‘Shockwave,’ haring down wave after wave, maybe three in a row and then plough into the fourth. The main was spilt fully, but there was no leaving the helm to reduce further sail. I tried to hove-to but she rattled off at 9, 10, 12kts hove-to in a precariously frightening way, before I turned down wind again. Desperate as it was, I was going to have to ride it out past Eddystone Lighthouse and hope for an ease in the sea state thereafter into Plymouth.

There is no way I could have handled five hours of extreme concentration; of non-stop wave-riding, without capsize; or have recovered ‘Shockwave’ from three near airborne catastrophes, when I turned into the waves past Eddystone and headed for Plymouth, without 1200 miles of helming day on Shockwave behind me.

The Faraday Mill OSTAR 2005 held a lot of firsts for me. They were firsts because they were alone. I was rarely fazed by it. Being alone sharpens the survival instinct, attention to safety and considerations of caution. Not once during the race did I have an attack of ‘Why am I doing this?’ I have not forgotten the feeling of utter exhaustion, the itchiness of wearing salty clothing, the damp sleeping bag and constant drenching. I have not forgotten the fear of the end, as wave after wave picks up the windward float, roams under the centre hull and tears away or the blindness of hurtling through the fog without radar. Equally vivid is the phosphorescence behind ‘Shockwave’ reaching into the mild night under a clear sky. The memory lies on the inside of my eyes, with the sudden, unexpected view out the other side of the fog bank which revealed a single star.

Lia Ditton.

Shockwave