After rowing some 4000 km, Shaun Quincey swam the final 250 m of his voyage from Australia to New Zealand through the pounding surf. He landed early afternoon March 14th on Ninety-Mile Beach to the out-stretched arms of family, friends and media wading through the whitecaps to surround him as his feet hit solid ground. Storm-battered and 17 kilograms lighter (with only cold porridge to sustain him for the last four days) Quincey arrived looking for all the world like an uncommonly well-built castaway—bearded and tanned, he rushed into the arms of his mother, Nanette, and girlfriend, Lisa Jones. His energy was infectious. He sported a huge grin, a confident stride, voice booming out as press and cameras flurried around him, the voices, handshakes and human presence surreal after spending 54 days in watery solitude.
The story in the last issue of New Zealand Geographic covered only the first two-thirds of the journey. But the remaining distance was to be his darkest. An “aggressively self-righting” boat only works if one remembers to close the hatch, and one night, in exhaustion, Quincey simply fell asleep listening to his iPod, having left a hatch open to vent the cabin in a stormy period.
He was woken when tossed violently onto the ceiling, coming to his senses knee-deep in water. The weight of the water countered the lead ballast in the hull and the boat remained upside down. He closed the hatch to keep the icy Tasman at bay, and spent 20 minutes throwing himself against the side of the cabin, gathering enough momentum to right his stricken craft. It capsized twice more during the storm, and he lost two oars overboard in the process, a lot of food and most of his remaining fresh water.
Quincey had to summon all his mental strength to persevere.
In another grave setback, his water-maker packed up, neither the electric pump nor the manual override working. Attempts to repair it were fruitless, though it made a very effective sea anchor when trailed on a rope behind his boat. An aerial drop by pilot John Funnell ensured he would not run out of water.
Quincey’s progress was tracked constantly via satellite, his final landing point adjusted by the day, then the hour, as he drew closer.
At 5.30 on Sunday morning, a small group of supporters convened in the chilly darkness outside Ahipara school in Northland. There was a crackle of excitement in the air. Among a group gathered under the lonely streetlamp was Quincey's mother, her curly blonde hair glowing in the dim light, as if it, like her, held some vibrant sense of anticipation.
According to the latest weather reports and GPS fixes, Quincey could land anywhere up Ninety-Mile Beach. Soon a convoy of a dozen four-wheel-drives was speeding up the deserted Northland highway, eery in the darkness. Conversations flowed to and fro about the man behind the madness.
“We never thought he was serious but it all eventuated,” said our car-mates Laurie and Carl, long-time friends of Quincey.
The quiet convoy parked on the beach in the half-light of dawn, heavy jackets countering the chill of the wind, huddled in cars or smoking cigarettes. The anticipation was electric. A group of men huddled around the back of one truck checking charts, consulting GPSs, and the convoy moved—rocketing and fishtailing wildly in the soft sand—whenever the tide threatened to sweep us away or Quincey’s projected landing point changed.
Vigil was kept atop the sand dunes, the onlookers lined up like sentries, some with binoculars, all gazing out to sea. Suddenly, the beach was filled with running men, women, children, camera crews, speeding cars, even a microlite weaving through the skies above us, all wanting to catch a glimpse of Quincey on his final swim.
His boat wasn’t designed for landfall in rough weather, so he bailed out as soon as he hit the surf, but kept looking back for “his baby”. It pitched and tumbled in the surf and was towed in by the lifesaving boats, having successfully carried its master across the Tasman Sea, over waves of alternating emotion and fortune.
But contrary to the exhausted survivor we expected to wash up, Quincey was on form when he landed. Amid the frenzy of the large media contingent, none of us saw a surge approaching from behind. In a split second we were immersed to the hips as the wave almost knocked us off our feet; small children went tumbling and film crews struggled to keep their cameras aloft. But after decades as a lifeguard, Quincey was in his element, taking charge instantly; “Alright! Everyone on the beach!” he commanded. Hordes of landlubbers, suddenly caught awash in the world he had inhabited alone for weeks, followed him towards the shore. Finally on dry ground, he could assume the role of celebrated, travel-weary adventurer, champagne uncorked and sprayed all over him, cheers, hugs, and the media urging sound bites—one, thoughtfully, with a bacon sandwich.
Quincey came into the New Zealand Geographic office a couple of weeks after the event. New haircut, same cheeky grin, once-blistered hands now “moisturised and soft” and more accustomed now to opening a fridge door than heaving on an oar.
On April 9th, he reunited with his father, Colin,, the only other person to have ever rowed the Tasman solo, but in the opposite direction. They swapped tales over a few single malts, both agreeing their trips were very similar and that though rewarding, it had been “just a case of slogging it out on the Tasman day by day, both of us, happy we did it but would never do it again!” As well as writing a book, charity work is next on the radar for Shaun Quincey. He’s planning a trip around New Zealand schools using his engaging gift of the gab to motivate young students, a worthy filler at least until the next adventure. There’s also tentative talk of another trans-Tasman, this time an organised race which he would co-ordinate.
Ultimately, he hopes to have his boat displayed in the Voyage maritime museum in Auckland beside his father’s, but he’s still coming to grips with the meaning of what he has accomplished. Before the voyage, one psychologist summed up what lay ahead of him, and the words have resonated for him ever since: “Complete security is death. So I guess you’re really living.”