Kijana Read online

  I didn’t know how I was going to make it happen. I had no money. In fact, as I sat there, I was hopelessly in debt. But I felt like the richest man in the world because I had my dreams. I could have as many as I wanted and I knew I could live them all.

  The next few months were crazy. I had 11 months of life to catch up on. While I was sitting aboard Lionheart all my mates were finishing school, getting their drivers licences and partying hard. It was a time of great change for any 18-year-old, let alone one who had missed out on so much.

  Not long after I returned I was approached to see if I was interested in becoming involved with Reach, a youth organisation. I was invited to a breakfast Reach was holding to raise money at one of those swanky hotels in the city that no one I knew could possibly afford to stay at. And it was so early! Hell, if I knew it was going to be on that early my Reach involvement may never have happened. The mainly corporate audience had paid to hear about the work of Reach, eat breakfast, and be in the office by 9 a.m.

  Any thoughts of feeling sorry for myself because of my lack of sleep quickly disappeared when some young people got up and began telling their stories about their violent families, school troubles, drug addictions and their dreams for the future. It was raw and honest and I was genuinely moved. I wanted to know more about these people and how Reach had helped them. I started attending the courses run by the young members of Reach for school kids.

  Meanwhile, I was getting more and more requests to talk about my trip from organisations, ranging from primary schools that had followed Lionheart’s voyage, to companies who wanted their employees to hear an inspirational message.

  I was terribly nervous standing up in front of an audience because I’m not someone who likes attention. And it showed. My words came out in some twisted form that barely made sense. I rambled on, spewing out whatever came into my mind. However, people encouraged me and I generally received a good response from my audiences. It was strange. I knew I was mumbling and was all over the place but people wanted to hear what I had to say. And some of them even paid me!

  A few months after my return I was approached by a book publisher keen to publish the story of my trip. I’d never been much of a writer but I decided to give it a shot and a very tight four-month deadline was set. It wasn’t the best fun I’d ever had but it was a good experience to read through my journal and churn out up to 2000 words a day. And after all the excitement of getting home, it rekindled my desire to get back out onto the water.

  I also had a shoebox full of video tapes I had filmed on the trip. Filmmaker Paul Currie was enlisted to make a documentary of the trip and immediately set to work filming interviews with all the major players involved in the trip. My main role was to help Paul’s assistant editor, Amelia, go through the tapes and log the most interesting bits. We had 60 hours to wade through, which took a couple of weeks to view before the editing even started. Sometimes I’d do it without Amelia and sometimes she’d do it without me.

  One day I arrived at the studio expecting to be the only one there, only to find a young guy scrolling through my footage. He had long, dark, straight hair down his back and was looking through some of my most intimate moments. He quickly stood up and said hi.

  I vaguely recognised him as the brother of one of the leaders from Reach. His name was Josh. He said Paul had invited him to help with the documentary because he had done some short films at school and was keen to get into filmmaking. We sat together for the rest of the day, not saying much, just going through the footage and commenting on it. It was a strange start to the strong friendship that would soon develop.

  Josh was a year older than me and was also a Reach leader. The more I got know Josh and his friends, the more I got into Reach. I slowly learnt how this mixed group of people had been pulled together. What impressed me more than their stories was their attitude. Like me, they believed that they could do anything, so a lot of their work was aimed at showing people not much younger than themselves that their potential was limitless. These kids were inspired and the parents thought the leaders were saints. I liked these people too – a lot!

  I was in a strange stage of my life. I found myself with two groups of friends – my old friends from school and the Reach friends I was getting to know.

  One night was pivotal in me being accepted into my new group of friends.

  It happened at my house at Sassafras, on a rare Saturday night when Mum was away. Nine of us – five guys and four girls – were having a great night, drinking and partying, when the challenge was laid out – everyone had to get nude. We’d dabbled in nudie runs a couple of times, but that was only ever a couple of guys larking about. This was a dare for each of us to bare all as friends, not as a sexual thing and without the silly carry-on of streaking.

  Chocko, an extroverted Sri Lankan, was first, followed by another of the guys. They emerged from my bedroom totally starkers and casually walked to their seats in the circle. Mika, another Reach leader was the first girl and soon everyone had shed their clothes. Admittedly, the lights had been dimmed, and I think we were all slightly stunned by what was happening. But after the initial sneaked glances of curiosity, we forgot everyone was naked and the night went on. The music was cranked up and body parts not usually invited to public functions were flying about as the dancing continued.

  To top off the night, we filed out the front door and ran about 300 metres down the road to a main intersection. Under a street lamp we danced around naked, revelling in our friendship and freedom and hoping for a passing car to scare.

  From that night on I felt so much closer to these people.

  Before we headed home to bed I took a moment to stand back and watch everyone. I loved being home, people liked me and I was having fun, heaps of fun, but deep down I yearned to be out on the sea again, living the adventure of a lifetime. I could think of little else but getting back out onto the water.

  As I stood there on that cold August night, my naked friends dancing around me, I knew the time to move on had arrived. I’d done the planning, I’d dreamt the dreams, now it was time to make it all come to life. It was time for the Kijana adventure.

  CHAPTER TWO

  COMING TOGETHER

  A YEAR AFTER I RETURNED FROM MY SOLO trip, my book, Lionheart: A Journey of the Human Spirit, hit the shelves. The initial prediction by the publisher was for sales of about 20,000 copies, a bestseller by any standards in Australia. By the time it came to publishing, they’d tapped a rich vein of publicity, so the print run was boosted to 50,000. Within 12 months, Lionheart had sold more than 100,000 copies, with editions in the United Kingdom, Germany, South Korea and Denmark.

  Around the same time, my documentary of the same name was released. Paul had done a fantastic job and it was sold to an international distributor at a very good price. With money from the book and the documentaries, as well as my corporate talks, my appearance in an advertising campaign for a major telecommunications company and appearances at events for organisations, I was able to pay off my debt to Mum. Clearing that allowed me to turn my attention to my next trip.

  I already knew the route I would take. I planned to leave Melbourne and sail up the east coast of Australia, heading straight for Papua New Guinea; then on to Indonesia, India and Africa, where the crew would leave the boat on the coast of Tanzania and cross the continent by land while another crew would sail our boat around to meet us on the other side. I wanted to ride camels across the Serengeti Plain, then raft down the Congo River to meet the boat on the Atlantic coast.

  Whether all of this was possible, I wasn’t sure. But there was no harm in aiming high. From Africa we would head to South America and venture up the Amazon River as far as possible, then through the Caribbean Ocean and Panama Canal to the Galapagos Islands. From there we would stop at Easter Island, then make our way though the Pacific back to Australia. It was the ultimate adventure, and would take up to three years to complete.

  When asked by teachers to ‘inspire’ their s
tudents, I always found it difficult. I was inspired by adventure, but I found it hard to express in words what exactly it was about adventure that captured me. So I intended my next trip, in a way, to do the talking for me. I planned to do this through weekly email updates and documentaries that could be viewed around the world. I figured these would be more effective than me standing in front of a classroom umming and ahhing.

  My choice of crew would be vital in inspiring young people. I didn’t want to take a crew who already had fixed ideas on what to expect, and the last thing I wanted was to have a hardened sailor on my back. I wanted a crew of novices; people who could show others that such a trip was achievable for anyone. Therefore, highly trained sailors and adventurers were out of the question. The crew would have to be pretty raw, with the trip revealing the emotional ups and downs and the physical difficulties of sailing around the world. I certainly didn’t want people to think that it was drinks at five every night after we had spent the day sunbaking on beautiful calm seas. Making your dreams come true would mean enduring some hardship.

  But before I could select a crew I needed to turn my attention to other matters – such as a name for my adventure. I searched the web for a suitable moniker to reflect the intentions of the journey. I was drawn to the sounds of Swahili words. I came across several, including hashiki, meaning passion. I liked it, but decided ‘passion’ was a bit cheesy and it sounded too much like Contiki, those organised holidays for under 35s. The ‘hash’ bit was also a bit of a worry, for obvious reasons.

  The only other word that really appealed to me was kijana. It means ‘young people’, which pretty much described my idea of the trip. I liked the sound of it, and so did everyone else, so Kijana it was.

  I could almost buy the sort of boat I needed with my royalties from the book and documentary, but I still had to find money for food, computers for the office and boat, video cameras, a satellite phone to stream our updates to the website (which needed to be developed), insurance, outboard motors, tents, surfboards, snowboards, dive gear, medical equipment and training.

  Some rough income projections showed that if we produced a 13-part television series of Kijana, the income would more than cover everything. But that was down the track. We needed cash now if anything was going to happen.

  Our only practical option was to obtain the equipment and financial help through sponsorship. I didn’t really want sponsorship and I was especially against having the boat plastered with logos. I wanted this to be an adventure, not an ad venture!

  It wasn’t that I was opposed to sponsorship, it was just that a group of friends would not normally head off on a journey with such heavy corporate backing. There had to be a balance between ideals and the reality of setting a boat up to be the ultimate adventure platform.

  Over the next six months we raised nearly all of what we needed. One of our biggest contributions came from telecommunications giant Telstra, who gave us satellite equipment and agreed to pay our communication costs. In return, we would send Telstra a short, edited video update every week for their website.

  Apple computers gave us some of their latest computers so we could start editing a promo tape to help us raise more funds, and insurance company NRMA agreed to cover all our insurance.

  In return for the help of these companies, we agreed to display company logos on our website and in our documentaries. We worked overtime to ensure that the boat’s hull remained clear of logos.

  The schools program, which the Herald Sun had run for

  Lionheart, was something we aimed to replicate. The newspaper had produced a map of the Lionheart route and an activity kit, which was sent to every primary school in Victoria. For Kijana we expanded this to include newspapers across Australia, with a weekly diary and activity kit that teachers could use in the classroom.

  Reach let us use part of their warehouse in Collingwood as our headquarters. In our small corner we proudly stuck an A4 piece of paper on the front door bearing the name of the company that had been formed to run the trip – The Kijana Partnership Pty Ltd.

  I was still living at home with Mum and Beau, an hour’s drive from the office, where I was spending most of my time. I wanted – and needed – somewhere I could call my own that was closer to the Kijana office. I had some cash, which, combined with a bank loan, could get me a flat and some furniture.

  I eventually found a one-bedroom apartment in St Kilda, an inner-city beachside suburb which has always had a fairly seedy reputation, particularly for drugs and prostitution. I was well aware of that, but I didn’t realise it would actually take place in the stairwell leading to my flat. I started to recognise the prostitutes who stood by my driveway and, despite being pretty uncomfortable at first, I was soon saying g’day to the transvestites in flat three.

  I was finally on my own, and loving it. I could have people over any night of the week without worrying about cramping Mum’s style and St Kilda was a great launching pad from which to hit the pubs and clubs. If Beau and his friends didn’t meet at my place on the weekends, we usually saw them at the Irish pub on Fitzroy St. Half the time they were refused entry because they were too rowdy, but Chocko, my Sri Lankan mate, often knew the bouncers and could get them in.

  One night, not long after I moved in, Chocko, Beau, his friend Harley and I gatecrashed the birthday party of a girl I didn’t know. I sat quietly in the corner enjoying the free beer and hoping my cover wasn’t blown, when I looked up to see a tall, elegant girl heading our way. I only had time to mumble ‘she’s hot’ to Chocko before she was onto us. I thought the gig was up, but it turned out Chocko knew her. Her name was Maya and she was the birthday girl.

  Chocko introduced us and she thanked me for coming. I stupidly held up my glass as if I was toasting her. Here we go again, I thought. I always managed to act the goat every time I was around a pretty girl. Luckily she ignored me and kept talking to Chocko. My eyes wandered from her mouth to her shoulders and then to her eyes. She was beautiful and I felt myself starting to sway. I put my glass down and took a seat, like some pissed idiot.

  More of her friends came through the door so she excused herself to go and greet them. As she turned and walked away, Chocko and I shot a glance at each other and covered our smiles by reaching for our near-empty pots of beer. The speeches began, but I was doing more staring than listening. My attention shifted only once, when Beau lost his balance and nearly landed on one of her family.

  Near the end of the night Chocko suggested I ask her out to dinner or over to my place. Surely she had a boyfriend, I said. He didn’t think so. Excellent!

  * * *

  Finding a suitable boat was proving a major challenge. My first preference was to build the Polynesian catamaran I’d dreamt of while aboard Lionheart. I had even commissioned some professional plans for a Tiki 46. It was, naturally, 46 feet long with two masts and gaff rigged wing sails. While most catamaran designers were building giant boats that look like a block of flats on the water and cost a bomb, the designer I’d chosen, James Wharram, was into tying the hulls and beams with rope in the traditional Polynesian way, so the vessel could flex with the ocean, rather than force its way through it. James also designed his craft so the layman could build the vessel in his backyard out of plywood, making the dream of sailing into the sunset much more attainable for the average Joe.

  Alas, such a craft would take more than a year to build and I had a tentative departure date of only six months. If I were delayed I’d have to wait another nine months for the right season before I could leave. Yet, I still wanted to sail something that would reflect the timeless journey of Kijana. I had great admiration for the men and women who discovered new lands and embarked on epic adventures without modern technology – under sail on wooden boats, navigating by the stars with no electronic communication.

  During a publicity tour to New Zealand for my book, I discovered a beautiful schooner at the Auckland museum. It seemed perfect, if a touch big, sporting a topsail on the forward mast
which made it look like something Captain Cook would have sailed.

  The curator of the museum told me it wasn’t for sale and, if it were, it would be well out of my budget. It was occasionally used to take people out sailing and was a prized possession of the museum.

  I must admit I was a bit ambitious hoping to buy a boat from a museum, so I turned to a more reliable source – Trade-A-Boat magazine.

  Trade-A-Boat was my bible. I first turned to its thousands of advertisements when the idea of sailing around the world filled my head when I was 14. It was where I found Lionheart and, once again, its pages revealed what I was looking for – a 54-foot timber yacht that appeared to fit the bill perfectly. She was designed by Captain Pete Culler, an American fishing boat designer of the early 1900s.

  She was a cutter-rigged ketch with beechwood decks and beautiful sweeping lines leading to a proud upright bow that gave the feeling she could take on any wave that Mother Nature would throw at her. She had a rear captain’s cabin, engine room, main cabin and V-berth cabin up the very front. It was perfect for a crew of five. To top it off, she was built in New Zealand, which boasts some of the world’s best boatbuilders.

  I flew to Queensland, where the yacht was moored at Manly Boat Harbour in Waterloo Bay. The broker picked us up from the airport and took us straight to the boat. She was absolutely beautiful. (The boat, not the broker.) Her name was Integrity 2, and boy did the name suit her. The owner had taken 14 years to build her, and it was obvious he had put a lot of love and time into her. The broker said she was the best boat he’d ever seen and would have bought her himself if the timing were right. For once, I believed a salesperson.

  I left the harbour convinced I’d seen the boat that could take me around the world. They wanted $295,000 for her, so I headed home to Melbourne to mull over the price.

  It was time to turn my attention to the crew. There were three criteria for crew selection. First, and by far the most important, was the ability to live harmoniously together for up to three years. If the crew couldn’t stand each other, Kijana would go nowhere.