our men on a raft: into the great emptiness
At the age of 84, Anthony Smith is crossing the Atlantic on a raft. As he settles into life at sea, he admits to a few moments of self-doubt.
'Would we meet any in this colossal ocean? Probably not; it is an empty place.'
8:00AM GMT 06 Feb 2011
After the final hugs, kisses and back-thumps it was time for all those not travelling to climb ashore. The four of us looked closely at each other, as well we might. David Hildred, 57, Andrew Bainbridge, 56, John Russell, 61, and I, at the age of 84, were about to spend the next 70 days – perhaps more – quite alone.
For the past 10 weeks we had hammered, glued, welded, screwed, sawn, chiselled, painted, knotted, ratchet-strapped, planed and generally transformed the container of goods and materials brought from the UK. We had also argued quite a bit and made compromises.
Then, as completion day arrived, there was only worry left. Would those ropes hold? Was that wood strong enough? Would we float too deep when everything – all the food and drinking water, plus the four of us and our personal possessions – were on board? No one else had built a raft of water pipes before. Not one of us had even seen a raft. How well would our craft steer? And did we have the skill to make it succeed?
We were about to embark on a 3,000-mile journey from the peaceful harbour of Valle Gran Rey across the Atlantic, a journey into the unknown. This thought, together with others of its kind and a heavy cold, had banished sleep for several nights. Would we see no one else before arriving at the Bahamas in April? No friends, no women, no children? Would we really travel along that dotted line on our chart indicating travel from east to west? Perhaps most importantly, would our raft hold itself together?
When, eight days ago, the An-Tiki was to be towed to sea by a whale-watching boat, I slumped in the cabin. Would it all work? Would I work? Was ignominy around the corner? Was I round the bend? All those faces on the quayside, well-wishers throwing chocolates, beamed happiness. There was confidence everywhere – save at the apex, where there was me, bereft of feeling. The trip would maybe "inspire others to do likewise" I had written. Would it hell!
But the towboat did look good. So did a sailing boat, packed with friends. A passing turtle, after rolling on its back, lifted a single flipper as if in fond farewell. A rainbow appeared to embrace the sea. All was so beautiful, even if sinking was on the cards. Suddenly the towboat dropped our line. We hauled it in and were alone. Our platform did not swivel. It stayed precisely as it should have done. And it neither rolled nor pitched. Our great journey had started.
The four of us, now even lonelier, waved in turtle fashion as the others departed, and we wondered about the next lot of humans we might see. Would we meet any in this colossal ocean? Probably not; it is an empty place. It has been even since Columbus made his voyage from the Canaries. Much of the world's sea traffic may have passed through the Atlantic in the interim, but to those afloat on it in the following centuries, it has often been a great emptiness. And it will certainly seem as lonely as a desert to a raft of elderly males who think adventure still possible when eligible for a bus pass.
Eight days into our voyage we like what we are doing and are well pleased with our shack of a dwelling - I will tell you more about life aboard next week – but time will tell. Time has a habit of doing that, as we shall no doubt learn, over and over again.