Across the Savage Sea: The Epic Journey of the First Woman to Row Across the North Atlantic

Part One

The White Hell of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland

1

First Storm—Memories of Saint-Pierre—First Days at Sea

KEEP YOUR CHIN UP. Whatever it takes, you have to hang in there. You’ve got to make it."

Scrunched up in the tiny aft cabin, I was so sick and exhausted I couldn’t keep my head from lolling against the bulkheads. Pilot, my boat, lay broadside to the troughs, rolling violently, buried continuously under twelve- to fifteen-foot waves.

My stomach felt like it had been turned inside out. I was seasick, drenched, frozen, crying in pain and panic. I just wanted to hide somewhere, to vanish.

I begged in a rasping, cracking voice: "Please, won’t somebody get me out of this prison? I can’t take this anymore. Just don’t break up on me now, Pilot. You hang in there for me, okay?"

With thunderous crashes, the sea smacked against the boat’s belly harder and harder. Every time Pilot’s hull came crashing down in a trough, my whole body shook violently. I had a migraine headache because there wasn’t enough air to breathe. The aft cabin, measuring about three feet high by three feet wide, soon became a dank, suffocating cage. In that claustrophobic space, a candle died in less than ten minutes. My temples felt as if they were caught in the jaws of a vise. Trembling with fear, I curled into a fetal position. I used my eiderdown quilt to absorb the pounding, wedging myself in so that I wouldn’t be flung against the planking of the hull. I just wanted it to stop.

Taking a sickening elevator ride, Pilot plunged from wave crests to troughs. I could almost hear her sobbing. It wasn’t supposed to be happening like this. No, not this bad, not right from the start! I could never stand three months of this kind of weather. Pitching and plunging wildly, Pilot groaned as the seas smacked into the half-inch planks of her hull. Massive waves tossed us around like some kind of pathetic toy, savagely shaking us, hurling us violently in every direction. There was no way of telling where the next assault would come from. This had been going on for five hours now, and I still couldn’t breathe. I had a bucket in one hand, ready for the next round of seasickness. The other held the hatch, hoping to crack it enough to let in a bit of air. But the North Atlantic gave us no respite. Disaster struck the next second. A huge breaking wave crashed into our port side, and Pilot rolled over onto her beam-ends before I could reach for the grab-rail. My head caromed off the Plexiglas observation bubble in the cabin roof, leaving me stunned. Icy water came flooding through the partially open hatch, I saw my foul-weather jacket awash in a mixture of seawater and vomit. Pilot’s luck seemed to have run out. It was my first capsize.

*   *   *

I had to react fast. There was only one thing on my mind: surviving. I lunged for the Plexiglas hatch and pulled it shut. I had no intention of letting my boat sink. Poor little Pilot had turned upside down. I couldn’t keep myself steady—I went over with her. It felt like the end of the world. Everything went black. In terror, I shut my eyes and clung to the grab-rail that had been installed alongside my bunk. I stayed that way for a few seconds. I couldn’t see anything, but I knew the galley stove was directly over my head. There must have been some water left in the kettle because it was streaming down onto my hair. Then a new wave set us upright again. I fell back on my bunk, dazed, unable to understand what had just happened. I had to grit my teeth as pain shot through my wrist. I prayed that it wasn’t broken.

"I can’t take this anymore. I just don’t want to die out here, not like this

I started crying again. But this time, I couldn’t stop. I hurt everywhere. I was in a state of shock. The cabin stank to high heaven, and there I was—shivering, cold, the right side of my face sore and swollen after hitting the cabin roof. I felt like an animal, an exhausted, filthy animal thrown back into a cage after being forced to fight. Utterly wiped out, I sat there, rocking back and forth, struggling to regain my composure. I had the urge to throw myself into someone’s arms, to cry on someone’s shoulder. I would have given anything to sleep, to forget everything and wake up somewhere else. Pretending that I wasn’t all alone, I invented another person who could help me get through my anguish, my distress, in the blackness of that night in which Pilot and I were imprisoned. Without realizing it, I began stroking my hair, and it was as if the hand of another were caressing me.

I was unable to move for hours, trying to get over my fright. I did my best to cheer up, to smile. I kept telling myself that everything was all right, that the situation wasn’t so bad, that I was still me. It was just my body that had taken a beating—not my spirit. Someday I would forget these moments of anguish.

This was only my first gale. But it was a lot worse than I had anticipated. And I knew I was going to run into a lot more of them.

The gale had come up suddenly. The drogue I set out hadn’t held for long. This sea anchor, capable of holding Pilot’s bow into the wind and waves, was a small parachute canopy; its rope, a long nylon line three-eighths of an inch (10mm) in diameter, was rated to lift three times the weight of my boat. But the sudden pulls exerted on such a drogue in a gale are enormous. The line snapped after only an hour and we lost it—unfortunately, it was the largest anchor I had. The North Atlantic route meant days of adverse winds, so the drogue was vital in slowing my drift. My crossing having just begun, I had no way of knowing just how badly I would miss that drogue.

I couldn’t help kicking myself. I should have realized how much stress the wind could put on the line. I should never have heaved that sea anchor. I could have set out the smaller one so as to reduce the strain. True, the gale had been forecast, but the winds weren’t supposed to exceed 20–25 knots—just enough to toss the boat around a bit. I knew I could handle that—it was a situation I was ready for. And besides, I’d already made the decision to set out. But just two days after my departure, the wind began to rise. The ocean turned a nasty gray and the waves began to tumble in ranks fifteen feet high. I hadn’t found my sea legs at all. I had neither accustomed myself to my new living space nor to Pilot’s totally chaotic, totally unpredictable pitching and rolling. There I was, helpless, watching the weather turn into a gale.

Battered, disoriented, I couldn’t relax. In forty-eight hours, I hadn’t slept a minute. I’d been too seasick to eat a thing. It was mid-June, yet icebergs surrounded me. They loomed over my little boat like cliffs and, in darkness or poor visibility, I couldn’t see them coming. I was on the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, those dangerous shoals that make the waves short, choppy, confused. The shallow, sandy banks lying only a hundred or so feet beneath my boat made the sea capricious and violent.

The fog became increasingly dense. We were enveloped in it and, abruptly, the visibility dropped to less than three yards.

"Don’t be afraid, Pilot," I whispered. The storm had begun.

Isolated on my tiny boat, lost on the expanse of the ocean, I thought about my last few days on dry land. It brought a tear to my eye remembering Saint-Pierre and Miquelon, the islanders’ friendliness and generosity.

The day I arrived on the island, the rough hands of fifteen dockworkers eased Pilot out of her freight container as gently as if they were removing a jewel from its case. I watched them work: they were utterly astonished at what they saw. I told them my little story. They were simply baffled—why on earth would anyone want to put to sea in something as flimsy as that?

No, you’re joking. Her?

No, it’s no joke. The girl over there—the one talking to Jean-Louis Bernardelli, the sports journalist—that’s the girl rower.

A tall, thickset man pointed at me. "That little blonde? That can’t be!"

These men—fishermen used to the North Atlantic cold—knew the sea all too well. The sea had taught them about suffering, weathered their faces, hardened their resolve. It had taken their grandfathers, their fathers, and, for some, it had taken their sons. They knew that the sea was unrelenting, cruel, and unpredictable. Most of all, they knew it was no place for a woman. They understood the dangers of that rocky coast where the fog never lifted. They’d grown up hearing tales of their ancestors fishing for cod from their dories. They’d heard about schooners vanishing in the fog, about crews that were lost and never came back.

I stood there among the fishermen, somewhat daunted. Their astonished gaze left me uncomfortable. I had decided to set out from Saint-Pierre after meeting islanders at the Paris Boat Show. I had been charmed by their warmth and enthusiasm, their offers of assistance; and the fact that this island off Newfoundland belonged to France had been the clincher. Now, standing there in front of them, I tried to look confident even though I was shaking in my boots. Deep down was a gnawing doubt, fear that I wouldn’t make it, that I hadn’t properly gauged the danger, that I was unprepared.

Yet, I had done my homework. I’d thought out each step very carefully, considered every piece of advice, weighed all the problems and found solutions for each of them before setting out. I had made list upon list of things not to forget, things to check. I’d left nothing to chance. On a trip like this, either you made your own luck or you didn’t come back.

I had also spent many hours getting in shape. In addition to thousands of push-ups and crunches, I’d forced myself into a daily regimen of running. I’d picked running because it was something I really despised. To tell the truth, there had been plenty of times when I’d even had to force myself to row. But I was excited—I’d thought about the transatlantic crossing day and night. Throughout those long months, I’d force myself to imagine how it would be when the chips were down. I meant to convince myself that it was all a matter of willpower, that nothing could make me give up and that this really was my dream. You just had to start out properly motivated, with your thinking clear. I had made up my mind that I was going all the way. But I hadn’t even left Saint-Pierre and I was already trembling. I knew I couldn’t afford to put off my starting date.

The first man to solo the Pacific under oars, Gérard d’Aboville, had told me again and again: Maud, the only thing you’ll be able to choose is the weather on the day you sail.

Temperatures had been very low that year, and even now, in midsummer, the icebergs still hadn’t melted. Hundreds of enormous bergs had grounded on sandbars—especially on the Grand Banks off Newfoundland’s southeast coast. Invisible in the fog, these mountains of ice lay in wait for me. Like the freighters that plied these waters, I would have to go around the bergs, circling them to the south. And this meant adding many extra miles to my voyage. As for the wind, I had gradually come to accept that I couldn’t hope for more than two days of fair winds. Each morning, I walked down to the French National Meteorological Bureau and entered hesitantly, fearful of having them inform me about a storm. I sensed their discomfort. They avoided my eyes, not daring to tell me what they really thought of my plan. They were afraid—afraid of being held responsible for allowing me to go. They nevertheless did their best to help me with my preparations. The closer the departure date came, the more they pampered me, as if I were setting off on a voyage from which I