Bear Grylls (39 page)

ONE MAN’S DREAM TO LEAD A TEAM

To my dad, who I miss so much,

whom my father would so adore.

mer’cy
n. & a.

1. compassion towards those in distress;

2. something for which to be thankful;

3. a blessing – ‘it was a mercy we got out alive’

The man who risks nothing, gains nothing.

Neil Armstrong

We are still
no closer to Base-Camp and it’s getting late. I glance nervously around the Icefall. We are 19,000 vertical feet above sea level, in the mouth of
Everest’s killer jaws. I notice my hand is shaking as I fumble with the ropes through thick mittens. I am scared.

The sound of the metal climbing devices clinking on my harness is becoming hypnotic. I squeeze my eyes tight shut then open them. I try to breath rhythmically. I dig my crampons into the snow
and wait. Mick is still ten yards away, stepping carefully across the broken blocks of ice. We have been in this crevasse-ridden, frozen death-trap for over nine hours and we are tiring. Fast.

I stand up on my feet and take a few more careful steps, testing the ice with each movement. Then I feel the ice crack under me. I hold my breath. My world stands still. It cracks again then
drops and opens up beneath me. I am falling.

As I smash against the grey wall of the crevasse that was hidden beneath a thin veneer of ice, my world is spinning. The tips of my crampons catch the edge of the crevasse wall and the force
throws me to the other side, crushing my shoulder and arm against the ice. I carry on falling, then suddenly I jerk to a halt as the rope somehow holds me. I can hear my screams echoing in the
darkness below.

The ice that is still falling around me crashes against my skull, jerking my head backwards. I lose consciousness for a few precious seconds. I come to, and watch the ice falling away beneath me
into the darkness as my body gently swings around on the end of the rope. Suddenly all is eerily silent.

Adrenalin is soaring around my body, and I find myself shaking in waves of convulsions. I scream again and the sound echoes around the walls. I look up to the ray of light above, then down to
the abyss below. Panic is overwhelming me. I clutch frantically for the wall, but it is glassy smooth. I swing my ice-axe at it wildly, but it doesn’t hold, and my crampons screech across the
ice. In desperation I clutch the rope above me and look up.

I am 23 years of age and about to die.

The River Thames,
September 2003, five years later. It is raining. I look up and hope for better weather for the day of Jesse’s christening. I have it all
planned.

The priest is going to stand on the old wooden deck of our barge, his robes billowing in the autumn breeze that whistles down the Thames, and, right there, with our families all around, he will
christen our gorgeous son, Jesse, with snow water brought back from the summit of Mount Everest.

But first there were forms to be completed and my wife, Shara, was gradually working through the questions.

‘Occupation?’

‘What?’

‘I have to put your occupation here.’

‘OK.’

‘Well,’ Shara asked, ‘what
is
your occupation?’

I hated this question. What would have been a simple query for most people was anything but straightforward for me.

It would be so much easier just to be an estate agent. It would be so simple to write.

Explorer? Sounds self-important.

Mountaineer? Well I have always climbed, I guess.

Motivational speaker? Partly, but that’s not all.

Television presenter? When bribed.

Writer? Once in a while, but not that brilliant.

‘Just put anything,’ I replied unhelpfully.

In truth I feel rather as though I’m unemployable; but somehow I seem to have carved out this strange existence where I am able to do what feels natural to me, and then earn my living
speaking about those experiences. And that, I guess, is my job.

‘Oh, just put estate agent, my love,’ I told her.

The two adjectives
most often attached to the men and women who live these adventures are ‘brave’ and ‘eccentric’, but to be honest, I dislike
them both. I am not especially brave: I struggle with so many things and am much too sensitive for my own good. I often feel both afraid and vulnerable in this weird world we live in, and miss my
family if I leave them for twenty-four hours. As for ‘eccentric’, I am not eccentric: yes, I sometimes take risks, but by nature I am extremely cautious. I am only too aware of the law
of averages: the more times you get lucky, the worse your odds become.

What I do know is that I have always tried to live as my dad taught me.

My father died less than three years ago. Out of the blue, unannounced. He had been recovering from a pacemaker operation and was at home and fine, sitting up in bed. A minute later he was dead
– just like that. That wasn’t meant to happen; he was only sixty-six. In the blink of an eye, one cold February morning, my dad had gone. All I had now was what he had taught me. I wish
every day I could remember more.

Throughout my childhood in and around the Isle of Wight, he’d taught me to climb and he’d taught me to sail. I adored every day we spent together on the cliffs, every day on the sea.
I adored the excitement, the thrill and the challenge, but above all I loved just being close to him.

I remember those special days all the time, often at odd moments. Maybe backstage at a big conference when I’m nervous, about to go out there and face another sea of strange faces. It can
feel like the loneliest place on earth. I often think of Dad in those seconds before going onstage. I don’t know why.

I remember how he once gave me an old 7-foot wooden boat with an even older 1-hp outboard engine. For Christmas he added a steering wheel, so I could potter around the harbour like a real
captain.

He guided me, he moulded me and he liberated me.

‘Now listen, Bear,’ he would say. ‘There are only two things that really matter in life. The first is to have dreams. The second is to look after your friends. The rest is
detail.’ That was life in a nutshell.

If my school reports were terrible, as they invariably were, he would say I should try harder, but it never seemed like the end of the world. He would pull a silly face, speak in a silly voice
and hold me tight. And I learned more about life in those moments than in all my years of school.

It was soon
after my eighth birthday that Dad gave me a huge framed photo of Mount Everest. This was immediately hung on the wall in my bedroom. I would stare at it for
hours in the dark, trying to imagine what it would be like to climb up there. What would it really feel like, so far away, so exposed, in those storm-force conditions that inhabit high ice faces?
In my little bedroom, that Everest dream was born. One day, I swore to myself, I would stand on top of the world.

After leaving school, I joined the army. During this time I served for three years as a soldier with the British Special Air Service (21 SAS) until a freak parachuting accident almost ended my
life.

I was in southern Africa, it was early evening, everything was routine; then my chute failed to deploy properly. I survived the fall, the torn canopy slowing my descent, but my injuries were
bad. I had broken my back in three places and was deemed by the African doctor a ‘miracle man’ to have survived. It had indeed been a miracle, and one I thank God for every day.