Woman vs. ocean

The greatest challenges of the 19-day trip, in Ditton’s own words:

Jellyfish

Between Monterey and Santa Maria (Santa Barbara County), I had the most incredible ocean wildlife encounters I have ever experienced in 150,000 miles of global ocean travel.

Whales breaching nearby always take my breath away, but these whales breached so often and came so close, they became company, my escort south. Sardines shimmered on the surface like a murmuration of starlings; sunfish flopped about and one afternoon I played peek-a-boo with a seal, the seal hiding behind the rudder and then popping his head up over the main cabin to look at me, doing this again and again.

So imagine my horror, when one night, I saw what I thought was a large white plastic bag floating alongside my boat. I gripped the rail and was about to launch my hand into the water to save the planet, when the white plastic bag pulsed. On close inspection, the white plastic bag had tendrils. The white plastic bag was not in fact a plastic bag, but the largest jellyfish I have ever seen in my life. Close call.

Weather

Santa Ana winds, known locally in Santa Barbara as “the sundowner,” are common in October maybe, but July? That was a surprise!

I was rowing steep seas and hitting top speeds as the sun sank to the west. The rowing felt wild, verging on out-ofcontrol, and I was concerned. Then the wind snubbed out with the sun. Poof. Just like that. There was a whiff of warm air off the Santa Ynez Mountains that smelt divine, of cedarwood.

The sea knew before I did what was about to happen next. The waves began jumping about all over the place. I looked to the land and felt an apocalyptic blast: 90-degree wind screaming at 40 knots. At that moment, I was 2.5 miles upwind of the oil rig Harmony, feeling anything but harmony.

Later that night when I had lost the shelter of Point Conception, I heard a huge wave roaring towards me, a terrifying sound like that of an oncoming train. The wave — known locally as a “growler” — out of sequence with the wave pattern, smashed into the back of my boat like a car crash. Water rained over the cabin and swamped the deck. This happened three or four times before I realized that being hit by a growler was more dangerous than crawling on deck, hauling in the sea anchor and letting the boat drift across the shipping lane.

Other ships

I had five close encounters with ships. The first was an empty car carrier. When I saw the boat’s light in the dawn, my whole body began to shake, which has never happened before.

I dove into the cabin for the radio:

“Big ship, big ship, this is rowboat,” which sounded ridiculous even as I said it. Nothing. No reply.

Back at the oars, I picked up the pace.

“Big ship, blue hull, this is rowboat.” I tried the radio one more time. “We are on collision course.”

The response to those words was immediate. The ship turned 30 degrees to port.

“I don’t see you, are we clear?” asked a sleepy-sounding voice.

A few minutes later, I stopped shaking and gulped down some breakfast.

My fifth close encounter wasn’t with a commercial ship, but a pleasure boat. When I saw the boat charging toward me, I was excited! It had been almost two weeks since I’d seen people!

The powerboat rounded my bow adeptly and came along my starboard side. I expected the vessel to slow down, someone to appear outside, open a window; hang out of a door.

No one came outside. Through the window, I could see there was no one in the wheelhouse at all. My boat was 40 feet from plowing into the boat’s stern. The boat’s name was Sand Dollar, and the owner-operator will never know how close we came.

Sleep

I slept in 40-minute (one sleep cycle) or one-hour-20 (two sleep cycles) chunks, checking for ships and resetting my alarm maybe four or five times in one night. I was surprised how well my body adjusted to this pattern.

On the night of the freak Santa Anas, sleep was impossible. My boat was being buffeted — worse — being dragged backwards, upwind and up waves, because my sea anchor (a giant underwater parachute to minimize drift) had hooked into a westbound current determined to trawl me back out to sea. According to my heart rate monitor, I rowed 19 hours and 45 minutes that day, in an effort to round Point Conception before nightfall. I was desperately tired. I began hearing voices, people’s voices! I would open the hatch excited to see people … that weren’t there.

Hours later, as I was pulling in the sea anchor, waves crashing over the boat, I looked forward to the forward cabin and saw a small hand trying to open the window from the inside. “That’s not real!” I told myself.

I’ve heard voices before, racing a sailboat single-handed across the Atlantic. Never an apparition. That was new.

Rowing nude

For the most part, I didn’t row naked down the coast of California. It was too cold and windy! But that changed after I turned the corner to Santa Barbara and on to Redondo Beach. It was really hot!

I have been working with Under Armour since January, to create seam-free clothing for rowing. The pants they made for me are amazing! However, I have been wearing their off-the-shelf SPF longsleeve top, as there didn’t seem a need for anything custom… until I took off my vest layer. The shoulder seam had given me a chafe burn under the arm, making clothing unbearable to wear.

(At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!)

South of the Channel Islands, the Coast Guard cutter was out on patrol. The cutter’s engines are quiet and so I didn’t hear them approach. As the boat got nearer, they slowed the boat right down to a crawl. There was a flurry of activity by me to find clothing, which I suspect looked suspicious. They did not call me on the radio. They just sat there watching.

I was just about to take a bucket bath, so glad I waited! Naturally I saw the Coast Guard again later, as I was indeed taking said bucket bath.