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Overview
How many rides does it take to hitch from Tasmania to London? Intrepid traveler and rogue wanderer Jamie Maslin decides to find out. The Long Hitch Home is a vibrant travelog of well-researched social, cultural, and historical introductions to the score of countries Maslin passed through.
Whether writing about the exotic backstreets of cities few of us will get to see firsthand, or the unique geographical wonders of far off countries, Jamie Maslin gives a thrilling account of what it is like to hit the road and live with intensity and rapture.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781632200334 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Skyhorse |
| Publication date: | 02/03/2015 |
| Sold by: | SIMON & SCHUSTER |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 408 |
| File size: | 8 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Long Hitch Home
By Jamie Maslin
Skyhorse Publishing
Copyright © 2015 Jamie MaslinAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62087-831-6
CHAPTER 1
A Devil of a Place
The island of Tasmania, or "Tassie," as it is affectionately known to Australians, is a special place. The southern most Australian state, if you keep going south from Tasmania the next landmass you'll hit is the frozen continent of Antarctica. It is the twenty-sixth largest island in the world, roughly the size of the Republic of Ireland but with a population of just over half a million, fifty percent of whom live in Tasmania's capital, Hobart, the second oldest city in Australia. This leaves vast swathes of the island empty wilderness. Towering forests, craggy wind-swept mountains, thundering waterfalls and elegant sweeping beaches abound. Unlike the dry heart of the Australian mainland, Tasmania's climate is temperate. It has cold winters and highly variable summers in which you can experience four seasons in a single day. It is home to some of Australia's best-preserved historic architecture and convict sites (the island was founded as a penal colony), the world's tallest hardwood trees—the colossal Swamp Gums (Eucalyptus regnans) which can reach heights of 330 feet—and one of my favorite animals, the Tasmanian devil. This rowdy, muscular, dog-sized mammal is the largest carnivorous marsupial on the planet with the most powerful bite of any mammal relative to body mass.
After a delightful Christmas with Emily and her family in Hobart—a charming historic waterfront city, whose skyline is dominated by the dramatic four thousand foot peak of Mt. Wellington—it wasn't long before my mind turned to the Australian mainland and my imminent long hitch home. The only exceptions that I was prepared to make to my rule of nothing but hitching back to England, were when I was in a city—where it is next to impossible to hitchhike—or on seafaring sections of the trip. Under those circumstances I would pay for a ferry to the next landmass, or a local bus to get me to the city's outskirts. Other than that, I'd thumb a ride the entire way. A ferry left Tasmania from the northern town of Devonport for the mainland city of Melbourne, but I wondered if I could begin my journey in more style than that.
Every year one of the world's most difficult yacht races, The Sydney to Hobart, sets off, as its name suggests, from Australia's most populous and renowned city, Sydney, for Hobart, 630 nautical miles away across the treacherous waters of the Bass Strait. It begins the day after Christmas with most competitors arriving in time to enjoy the New Year celebrations in Tasmania—although many fly back immediately after arriving to celebrate in Sydney instead. With more competitors sailing to Tassie than back to Sydney, I decided to try to hitch a ride on one of the sparsely-crewed yachts heading to the mainland after the race.
The alarm clock rang in the bedroom I was sharing with Emily at her family home, heralding the New Year with a ghastly electronic shriek, rousing me as if I'd been prodded awake by needles. I groaned, hit the snooze button, and closed my sluggish hangover-heavy eyes. In what seemed like seconds it was tormenting me again. I turned it off. Could I really be bothered to get up and traipse around the marina first thing in the morning? If I wanted a yacht though, I had to get cracking. Looking over at Emily, whose curly locks spilled over the downy pillows, I snuggled in for a final departing hug, her warmth and beauty tempting me to stay.
Minutes later I was driving away from the forested slopes of Mt. Wellington, down through empty tree-lined streets, past Victorian and Georgian properties dripping in character, towards the city center's waterfront heart, Sullivan's Cove—the landing site used by the British when founding the city in 1804. Located here is the main marina, Constitution Dock, where a flotilla of racing yachts was berthed, their gently swaying masts visible from afar. I left the car by a small park and began strolling toward them past a cobblestoned area of former Georgian sandstone warehouses, once used to store grain, whale oil and wool, now converted into galleries, cafés, craft shops, pubs, and restaurants. From the marina itself ran multiple piers where row upon row of racing yachts were berthed. These ranged in size, modernity and value, reflecting the different racing divisions—and wallet size of the owners. It was a beautiful sunny morning, making for a dazzling display of light on the water's surface. Skipping across the marina was a cooling salty breeze, creating a symphony of pinging sounds from the yachts' taught halyard lines that blew against the hollow aluminum masts along which they ran. Accompanying this were the lonely cries of gulls overhead, the fluttering of official race flags, and the faint lapping chop of the ocean against the yachts' brilliant white hulls.
As I gazed at the myriad vessels, an agitated excitement enveloped me; a euphoric realization that this could be it: if I found a place on a yacht then my hitchhiking adventure would begin. Once more I would enter that sacred realm where I feel most complete—being on the move. Already the torpidity of London was fading from my spirit. But logically speaking I didn't feel too optimistic of getting a ride. After all, the place was awash with world-class yachtsmen, whereas I had practically no experience, having done but a basic sailing course some eight years earlier and next to no sailing since. There was no shortage of yachts to ask though. It was a numbers game, I figured. If I asked enough people, then I'd be in with a chance.
Despite it being New Year's Day, a surprising number of people were up and about, tinkering with their yachts, displaying no sign of being worse for wear from a heavy session the night before. Strolling down the pier I approached a man on the first yacht to my left.
"Excuse me," I said, with a buoyant smile, "I don't suppose you're looking for crew for the return leg to Sydney?"
"No, we're from Tassie. We're not sailing back."
I thanked him and moved on to the next yacht where a bronze-skinned, white-haired man in his sixties was pottering about on board a sleek medium-sized yacht.
I greeted the yachty, and asked if he was looking for crew to sail back to Sydney.
He looked me up and down.
"Yes."
Bloody hell. I hadn't been expecting a positive response from the second vessel I approached. His matter-of-fact reply left me stumped, and I paused, tongue-tied for a second, struggling for a coherent response. He came to my assistance.
"Have you sailed before, and more importantly do you get seasick?"
I proceeded to exaggerate my previous experience and assured him that I didn't get seasick. This was untrue. On the first day of my sailing course I'd spent a good while throwing up over the side. I wouldn't be letting that inconvenient truth throw a wrench in the works. After all, my sickness hadn't lasted more than a couple of hours, so I hoped I'd be okay this time. I'd need to be. It was a four to five day sail to Sydney and we could be in for some exceptionally rough seas. The previous Monday had seen winds of fifty knots hammering the yachts as they made their way to Hobart. The going had been so rough that even veteran wave rider and seven-time world surfing champion Layne Beachley, who was crewing on board a one hundred foot supermaxi, came down with such severe seasickness that she was confined to her bunk from the first day of the race until the last. I hoped I wasn't asking for more than I could handle.
"We leave in an hour and a half from the Sandy Bay Yacht Club after the winners' presentation. Can you make it there in time?" asked my potential skipper.
I hadn't been expecting this either, having assumed that no one would actually set sail today. I figured most people would head back some time after New Year's Day, giving me plenty of time to pack and say goodbye to Emily, whom I wouldn't be seeing now for several months. But I wasn't about to turn down what seemed like a tremendous stroke of luck, so I gave a resounding, "Yes."
After the briefest of introductions—his name was Tony, and the yacht's, named in honor of his wife, Eleni—I bade my new skipper goodbye for now and turned on my heels to make a hasty trip back to get packed and say my farewells.
Tony called out after me.
"If you're not there in time we'll leave without you."
My heart pounded in my chest as I ran to the car. In my excitement I fumbled with the door lock, dropping the keys on the sidewalk. I struggled to find the right one and then had similar panic-induced difficulties with the ignition. I floored it all the way back to Emily's, the car's tires letting out a screech on the hot asphalt as they came to an abrupt stop outside her home. I was in a real hurry, but instead of rushing inside, I sat still for several seconds, let my heart settle and gathered my thoughts. An excited smile crept across my face—I was about to sail over six hundred nautical miles across a stretch of notoriously difficult ocean and start my hitchhike back to England.
The good times were about to begin!
Emily was still curled up asleep when I arrived, wrapped in the fluffy duvet which she had rearranged so that it was around her head like a huge shawl, leaving only the round of her face visible. I smiled at her tenderly, then gently rocked my sleeping beauty to consciousness, her big blue eyes looking up at me through the sea of covers.
"I've got good news and bad news, darling."
She guessed. "You leave today."
"In about," I checked my watch, "an hour and fifteen minutes."
In what is without doubt the quickest and least thought-out packing I've ever done for such a vast trip, I threw everything I had taken with me to Australia into my backpack, stuffing it down with brute force. There was far more than I needed, or had intended to take on the journey back, having planned for Emily to carry superfluous items on the plane with her. There was no time for this now. It all had to come, essential or not. I'd work out what could be offloaded later. After a brief, though fond, farewell to Emily's family, we jumped back in the car and headed for the yacht club in nearby Sandy Bay.
The place was packed in readiness for the official winners' presentation. The competitors were all seated at a patio area outside the main clubhouse with views across the marina, where a small purpose-made stage had been erected for the event.
Taking a seat behind some media cameramen covering the action, we settled in with a cooling drink to watch the proceedings, sheltering beneath a parasol from the now-roasting sun. It was only when Tony was presented with an award—a wooden plaque with a cross-section of a yacht—that I realized he'd won his race division. Photos followed of him and his winning crew posing with the trophy.
When proceedings came to a close, we approached Tony, who introduced us to the crew. Other than Tony, only one of the racers, Albert, a twenty-one year-old engineering student from Sydney, was returning to the mainland on the yacht. The rest of the original crew were flying. The new team that I'd be joining consisted of Steve, a burly and bearded sea dog in his forties from Brisbane, and Jessica, a blonde Swedish girl in her thirties, currently living in Tasmania.
Minutes later I was being shown onto my floating home for the next few days by Albert, while Emily waited on the pier. She looked upset. After stowing my backpack down below I went up to console her.
"Don't worry Ems, I'll be home before you know it."
There was no time to chat, and so with some tender parting words and a warm last embrace, we said goodbye.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Long Hitch Home by Jamie Maslin. Copyright © 2015 Jamie Maslin. Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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