Pedalling the Pacific
We’re riding the roller coaster of a Pacific swell nearly 1,000 kilometres west of California. In a pedal boat. We’ve been pedalling against the wind all day, staring at the same patch of fathomless blue. We’re hamsters on a wheel, going nowhere.
And to make matters worse, our water-maker has broken down. The prospect of running out of water creates an immediate, gripping thirst. We discuss cutting our water use by half, while dissecting each other for signs of panic.‘What are we going to do now?’
‘Um… dunno. Let’s have a cuppa and think about it.’ We’re in the Pacific because of a daydream I had more than seven years earlier. I was contemplating what I might do if I was free to do absolutely anything. I realised that I was free, and what I wanted to do was become the first person to circumnavigate the planet using only human power. And so, Expedition 360 was born. I asked my good friend Jason Lewis to accompany me, which was an inspired choice since it was he, rather than I, who managed to complete the challenge after 13 years and more than 72,000 kilometres of travel.
Three ways of dying
The fundamental item of gear for our quest was Moksha, at the time the world’s only ocean-going pedal boat: big enough to carry provisions to sustain two people for six months at sea, yet sufficiently light and streamlined to be pedalled by a single pair of legs connected to a pedal system and propeller.
It would be wrong to claim that using pedals rather than oars to cross an ocean by human power is ‘better’. The two are very different experiences and some people simply prefer rowing. However, pedalling has some undeniable advantages: it enables the crew to be enclosed, and hence protected from the weather, and to produce greater power using their legs in a recumbent cycling position. In short, pedalling is faster, safer and more comfortable.
Our primary aims were, of course, to stay alive and to make it to the other side of the ocean. Although Jason and I were both shockingly inexperienced about the sea when we began our first pedal-boat voyage across the Atlantic, we had read enough accounts of ocean rowers – including those by John Ridgeway, Chay Blythe and Tom McClean – to realise that there were essentially only three ways of dying: being lost overboard; wrecking on a hostile coast; and being run down by a commercial vessel. Provided we could stay with the boat and keep pedalling, we knew it could be done.
A lot of people thought we were crazy to try pedalling across the Pacific in a tiny wooden boat, but it’s probably statistically safer per kilometre than biking down the high street of your local town or city during rush hour. This safety factor was greatly enhanced by ensuring that we had the best marine safety equipment available.
Our Pains Wessex EPIRB (emergency position-indicating radio beacon) was a great reassurance. We would have used it to call for assistance in a life-threatening situation. By releasing a safety catch and depressing the ‘hot button’, it transmits a signal via satellite to an earth station, from which a search and rescue operation can be coordinated. Depending on how far out Moksha was from land, a coastguard vessel would be dispatched, or passing ships would be diverted to the latitude and longitude broadcast by the EPIRB. The unit is capable of transmitting for several weeks before the battery gives out.
We also took an Ocean Sentry radar enhancer. This superb gadget not only sets off an alarm inside Moksha alerting us to a ship in the vicinity, but also returns incoming radar pulses at many times the original magnitude, making our tiny vessel look like a battleship on a radar screen.
Our CARD (collision avoidance radar detector) was another hugely reassuring friend on long night watches. Designed to prevent collisions between ocean-going craft, it works by detecting incoming radar from other ships and setting off an alarm (visual and/or audio) to alert the crew of the approaching ship. It even indicates the incoming vessel’s approximate heading and speed.
However, we were wary of relying too heavily on these electronic devices, as ships often switch off their radars once they’re away from land in order to avoid false alarms from whales or other objects floating in the water. There’s no substitute for a pair of eyeballs scanning the skyline.
When it came to the worst-case scenario where we had to abandon Moksha, we were extremely grateful to the RAF and the folks at RNAS Culdrose, who provided us with military-grade lifejackets and personal life rafts. Each lifejacket came equipped with a SARBE personal locator beacon that operated on a military frequency. This would have allowed an aircraft to zero in on each of us in the event that our life rafts became separated.
Less is more
Safety gear aside, it’s incredible how many different things we assumed we would need. But, in truth, all you need to survive – in addition to occasional doses of medicine and good luck – are water, food and the ability to maintain your temperature using clothing or shelter.
Clothing wasn’t an issue since Moksha’s Pacific route traversed only subtropical or tropical waters. Indeed, the temperature inside Moksha’s central cockpit often became uncomfortably hot, prompting us to dive headlong into the ocean after each pedal shift to cool off. We tended to be naked for months at a time. The only thing covering our bodies was a thin, abrasive film of sea salt, which would lead to the dreaded ‘salt sores’.
By the time we reached Hawaii, we had endured several water-maker scares, so we decided to equip Moksha with three models of PUR Recovery Engineering desalinator: the 40 model (12 volts, producing about five litres of fresh water per hour); the 35 model (hand pump, producing about five litres per hour); and the 06 model (emergency wrist pump for life rafts).
Our food came courtesy of the British Army: Arctic and general-purpose rations kept in 24-hour packs. These provided about 7,000 calories per person. On land, surrounded by tastier options, no-one in their right mind would touch the stuff – especially our stash, which was four years out of date. On the other hand, the packs were free, and beggars can’t be choosers.
The other important factor in crossing any ocean is to make sure that you’re going in the right direction! As a novice astro-navigator, all I can say is thank goodness for late-20th-century technology, especially the Global Positioning System (GPS), which meant that we never had to rely on my alarmingly inaccurate sextant coordinates.
We used a Magellan Nav 6000 GPS to provide a latitude and longitude fix at least once a day, and then marked it on a traditional marine chart to find out our exact location on the ocean. Once out of sight of land, this chart was the only way of knowing where on Earth we were. Our position could then be used to determine the distance and direction we had travelled since our last fix, and what compass heading we would want to follow during the next 24 hours.
On average, we covered about 40 nautical miles (74 kilometres) in the correct direction each day. But when the ocean turned against us, we could be recording negative mileage, day after day, and we might eventually find ourselves back where we had been pedalling a week earlier.
Several veteran ocean rowers told me before we began that the only truly essential communications equipment was a VHF radio for calling up ships that were about to run us over. And for our earlier 111-day, 8,334-kilometre Atlantic crossing, that was all we had. However, by the time we reached the Pacific, we had managed to secure sponsorship for excellent long-range communications. We had two options for sending our daily reports back to the website: a Trimble Galaxy Inmarsat-C, which had a built-in EPIRB alarm in the event that something went badly wrong; and a mini-M satellite telephone provided by Stratos Communications, which had the added advantage of voice transmissions.
We used a ruggedised laptop to send and receive email from the boat via Inmarsat. The Rocky II was waterproof, shockproof and resistant to invasion from salt air and fog. On several occasions, I was drenched by an incoming wave while writing the daily update, yet the machine kept on working.
For conversation from close quarters through to line of sight (only about five to six kilometres in Moksha) with land or other vessels, we used Icom VHF fixed and handheld radios. Once you have a licence and have made the initial financial outlay, they’re free to use. A VHF radio is a must-have item for anyone in a boat – pedal or otherwise.
Moksha’s water-maker, navigational and internal lights, VHF radio, mini-M satellite phone, Inmarsat-C, compass light, CARD, Ocean Sentry and laptop computer all required 12-volt electricity. For the Pacific crossing, Moksha carried both a wind generator mounted on a short steel mast and flexible solar panels bolted onto the deck. We often experienced plenty of sunshine but no wind, or lots of wind but cloud overhead, but we were covered either way. The electricity generated was then stored in Moksha’s bank of three 12-volt gel batteries.
I’m guessing that there aren’t a great many readers seriously contemplating an ocean crossing in a pedal boat. But if a couple of bumbling novices like us could achieve this, what could you do?
Pedalling solo from Hawaii to Tarawa
There are pros and cons to pedalling solo. Having been built completely along utilitarian lines with maximum speed in mind, Moksha was fitted with only one sleeping compartment. This meant that when there were two of us on board, we would take turns to pedal in shifts of two or three hours, around the clock. While this ensured a pair of eyeballs were constantly scanning the horizon for ships, it also meant that neither of us got more than three hours sleep at any time, and a maximum of five in any 24-hour period, leading to chronic fatigue. Now that I was alone, I could get a full seven hours in the ‘Rat Hole’. The debilitating effects of what we called the ‘Creeping Grey Funk’, which ate away our sanity on the Atlantic crossing like a fungus, were no longer a problem.
However, I never slept soundly during my solo 73-day voyage for fear of falling into a deep slumber and waking all too late to the sound of diesel engines. This was no irrational fear fuelled by an overactive imagination: just a few years previously, the fractured carcass of Sector Two, an ocean-rowing boat belonging to our friend Peter Bird (a legend in ocean-rowing circles) had been found midway between Vladivostok and San Francisco in the North Pacific. The stricken craft was still afloat but bore all the hallmarks of a fatal collision with another, much larger, vessel. Peter’s body was never found. For this reason, my most valued piece of equipment on board Moksha was the Ocean Sentry collision-avoidance detector.
Stevie Smith and Jason Lewis are the founders of Expedition 360, the first human-powered circumnavigation of the globe, which Jason completed in October last year. To learn more, visit www.expedition360.com. Signed copies of Stevie’s book, Pedalling to Hawaii, are available at www.p2hi.com
Stockists and information:
Ampair: 01344 303 313; www.ampair.com
Amrel: +1 626 303 6688; www.amrel.com
Icom: +1 425 450-6087; www.icomamerica.com
Katadyn: +41 44 839 21 11; www.katadyn.com
Lifeline Batteries: +1 800 527 3224; www.lifelinebatteries.com
Magellan: 0800 62435526; www.magellangps.com
McMurdo: 023 9262 3900; www.mcmurdo.co.uk
Sea-me: 01963 34184; www.sea-me.co.uk
South West Wind Power: +1 520 779 9463; www.windenergy.com
Survival Safety Engineering: +1 757 480 5508; www.survivalsafety.com
All prices quoted are recommended/suggested retail prices
November 2008
And to make matters worse, our water-maker has broken down. The prospect of running out of water creates an immediate, gripping thirst. We discuss cutting our water use by half, while dissecting each other for signs of panic.‘What are we going to do now?’
‘Um… dunno. Let’s have a cuppa and think about it.’ We’re in the Pacific because of a daydream I had more than seven years earlier. I was contemplating what I might do if I was free to do absolutely anything. I realised that I was free, and what I wanted to do was become the first person to circumnavigate the planet using only human power. And so, Expedition 360 was born. I asked my good friend Jason Lewis to accompany me, which was an inspired choice since it was he, rather than I, who managed to complete the challenge after 13 years and more than 72,000 kilometres of travel.
Three ways of dying
The fundamental item of gear for our quest was Moksha, at the time the world’s only ocean-going pedal boat: big enough to carry provisions to sustain two people for six months at sea, yet sufficiently light and streamlined to be pedalled by a single pair of legs connected to a pedal system and propeller.
It would be wrong to claim that using pedals rather than oars to cross an ocean by human power is ‘better’. The two are very different experiences and some people simply prefer rowing. However, pedalling has some undeniable advantages: it enables the crew to be enclosed, and hence protected from the weather, and to produce greater power using their legs in a recumbent cycling position. In short, pedalling is faster, safer and more comfortable.
Our primary aims were, of course, to stay alive and to make it to the other side of the ocean. Although Jason and I were both shockingly inexperienced about the sea when we began our first pedal-boat voyage across the Atlantic, we had read enough accounts of ocean rowers – including those by John Ridgeway, Chay Blythe and Tom McClean – to realise that there were essentially only three ways of dying: being lost overboard; wrecking on a hostile coast; and being run down by a commercial vessel. Provided we could stay with the boat and keep pedalling, we knew it could be done.
A lot of people thought we were crazy to try pedalling across the Pacific in a tiny wooden boat, but it’s probably statistically safer per kilometre than biking down the high street of your local town or city during rush hour. This safety factor was greatly enhanced by ensuring that we had the best marine safety equipment available.
Our Pains Wessex EPIRB (emergency position-indicating radio beacon) was a great reassurance. We would have used it to call for assistance in a life-threatening situation. By releasing a safety catch and depressing the ‘hot button’, it transmits a signal via satellite to an earth station, from which a search and rescue operation can be coordinated. Depending on how far out Moksha was from land, a coastguard vessel would be dispatched, or passing ships would be diverted to the latitude and longitude broadcast by the EPIRB. The unit is capable of transmitting for several weeks before the battery gives out.
We also took an Ocean Sentry radar enhancer. This superb gadget not only sets off an alarm inside Moksha alerting us to a ship in the vicinity, but also returns incoming radar pulses at many times the original magnitude, making our tiny vessel look like a battleship on a radar screen.
Our CARD (collision avoidance radar detector) was another hugely reassuring friend on long night watches. Designed to prevent collisions between ocean-going craft, it works by detecting incoming radar from other ships and setting off an alarm (visual and/or audio) to alert the crew of the approaching ship. It even indicates the incoming vessel’s approximate heading and speed.
However, we were wary of relying too heavily on these electronic devices, as ships often switch off their radars once they’re away from land in order to avoid false alarms from whales or other objects floating in the water. There’s no substitute for a pair of eyeballs scanning the skyline.
When it came to the worst-case scenario where we had to abandon Moksha, we were extremely grateful to the RAF and the folks at RNAS Culdrose, who provided us with military-grade lifejackets and personal life rafts. Each lifejacket came equipped with a SARBE personal locator beacon that operated on a military frequency. This would have allowed an aircraft to zero in on each of us in the event that our life rafts became separated.
Start the slideshow (12 pictures)
Less is more
Safety gear aside, it’s incredible how many different things we assumed we would need. But, in truth, all you need to survive – in addition to occasional doses of medicine and good luck – are water, food and the ability to maintain your temperature using clothing or shelter.
Clothing wasn’t an issue since Moksha’s Pacific route traversed only subtropical or tropical waters. Indeed, the temperature inside Moksha’s central cockpit often became uncomfortably hot, prompting us to dive headlong into the ocean after each pedal shift to cool off. We tended to be naked for months at a time. The only thing covering our bodies was a thin, abrasive film of sea salt, which would lead to the dreaded ‘salt sores’.
By the time we reached Hawaii, we had endured several water-maker scares, so we decided to equip Moksha with three models of PUR Recovery Engineering desalinator: the 40 model (12 volts, producing about five litres of fresh water per hour); the 35 model (hand pump, producing about five litres per hour); and the 06 model (emergency wrist pump for life rafts).
Our food came courtesy of the British Army: Arctic and general-purpose rations kept in 24-hour packs. These provided about 7,000 calories per person. On land, surrounded by tastier options, no-one in their right mind would touch the stuff – especially our stash, which was four years out of date. On the other hand, the packs were free, and beggars can’t be choosers.
The other important factor in crossing any ocean is to make sure that you’re going in the right direction! As a novice astro-navigator, all I can say is thank goodness for late-20th-century technology, especially the Global Positioning System (GPS), which meant that we never had to rely on my alarmingly inaccurate sextant coordinates.
We used a Magellan Nav 6000 GPS to provide a latitude and longitude fix at least once a day, and then marked it on a traditional marine chart to find out our exact location on the ocean. Once out of sight of land, this chart was the only way of knowing where on Earth we were. Our position could then be used to determine the distance and direction we had travelled since our last fix, and what compass heading we would want to follow during the next 24 hours.
On average, we covered about 40 nautical miles (74 kilometres) in the correct direction each day. But when the ocean turned against us, we could be recording negative mileage, day after day, and we might eventually find ourselves back where we had been pedalling a week earlier.
Several veteran ocean rowers told me before we began that the only truly essential communications equipment was a VHF radio for calling up ships that were about to run us over. And for our earlier 111-day, 8,334-kilometre Atlantic crossing, that was all we had. However, by the time we reached the Pacific, we had managed to secure sponsorship for excellent long-range communications. We had two options for sending our daily reports back to the website: a Trimble Galaxy Inmarsat-C, which had a built-in EPIRB alarm in the event that something went badly wrong; and a mini-M satellite telephone provided by Stratos Communications, which had the added advantage of voice transmissions.
We used a ruggedised laptop to send and receive email from the boat via Inmarsat. The Rocky II was waterproof, shockproof and resistant to invasion from salt air and fog. On several occasions, I was drenched by an incoming wave while writing the daily update, yet the machine kept on working.
For conversation from close quarters through to line of sight (only about five to six kilometres in Moksha) with land or other vessels, we used Icom VHF fixed and handheld radios. Once you have a licence and have made the initial financial outlay, they’re free to use. A VHF radio is a must-have item for anyone in a boat – pedal or otherwise.
Moksha’s water-maker, navigational and internal lights, VHF radio, mini-M satellite phone, Inmarsat-C, compass light, CARD, Ocean Sentry and laptop computer all required 12-volt electricity. For the Pacific crossing, Moksha carried both a wind generator mounted on a short steel mast and flexible solar panels bolted onto the deck. We often experienced plenty of sunshine but no wind, or lots of wind but cloud overhead, but we were covered either way. The electricity generated was then stored in Moksha’s bank of three 12-volt gel batteries.
I’m guessing that there aren’t a great many readers seriously contemplating an ocean crossing in a pedal boat. But if a couple of bumbling novices like us could achieve this, what could you do?
Pedalling solo from Hawaii to Tarawa
There are pros and cons to pedalling solo. Having been built completely along utilitarian lines with maximum speed in mind, Moksha was fitted with only one sleeping compartment. This meant that when there were two of us on board, we would take turns to pedal in shifts of two or three hours, around the clock. While this ensured a pair of eyeballs were constantly scanning the horizon for ships, it also meant that neither of us got more than three hours sleep at any time, and a maximum of five in any 24-hour period, leading to chronic fatigue. Now that I was alone, I could get a full seven hours in the ‘Rat Hole’. The debilitating effects of what we called the ‘Creeping Grey Funk’, which ate away our sanity on the Atlantic crossing like a fungus, were no longer a problem.
However, I never slept soundly during my solo 73-day voyage for fear of falling into a deep slumber and waking all too late to the sound of diesel engines. This was no irrational fear fuelled by an overactive imagination: just a few years previously, the fractured carcass of Sector Two, an ocean-rowing boat belonging to our friend Peter Bird (a legend in ocean-rowing circles) had been found midway between Vladivostok and San Francisco in the North Pacific. The stricken craft was still afloat but bore all the hallmarks of a fatal collision with another, much larger, vessel. Peter’s body was never found. For this reason, my most valued piece of equipment on board Moksha was the Ocean Sentry collision-avoidance detector.
Stevie Smith and Jason Lewis are the founders of Expedition 360, the first human-powered circumnavigation of the globe, which Jason completed in October last year. To learn more, visit www.expedition360.com. Signed copies of Stevie’s book, Pedalling to Hawaii, are available at www.p2hi.com
Stockists and information:
Ampair: 01344 303 313; www.ampair.com
Amrel: +1 626 303 6688; www.amrel.com
Icom: +1 425 450-6087; www.icomamerica.com
Katadyn: +41 44 839 21 11; www.katadyn.com
Lifeline Batteries: +1 800 527 3224; www.lifelinebatteries.com
Magellan: 0800 62435526; www.magellangps.com
McMurdo: 023 9262 3900; www.mcmurdo.co.uk
Sea-me: 01963 34184; www.sea-me.co.uk
South West Wind Power: +1 520 779 9463; www.windenergy.com
Survival Safety Engineering: +1 757 480 5508; www.survivalsafety.com
All prices quoted are recommended/suggested retail prices
November 2008
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