Bear Grylls (45 page)

It was always going to be hard for me to trust somebody enough to allow them to liaise with the people who provided my living: the CEOs of the companies who use me as a speaker, or the sponsors
and contacts surrounding the expedition. But it didn’t take long for me to feel comfortable with Chloë in this role.

She was easygoing and efficient and her impact was immediate. It meant the world to me to be able to have the occasional relaxed evening at home with Shara, rather than working late into the
night catching up on an inbox full of emails.

Chloë’s role within the expedition soon became a vital one. She was going to operate our base from London and the expedition HQ was moved to the offices of Liaison Media, our PR guys,
only 100 yards away from our barge. It worked perfectly and was always a hub of banter and fun, the rooms piled high with radios, maps and logos.

I wanted to keep the barge clear for Shara. The London base was going to be our first point of contact with the outside world. Day or night, when we needed help out there, Chloë and that
office were to be our lifeline. It was a big responsibility for her.

Most of the crew didn’t know much about her to start with, but as soon as she handed out her neatly prepared folders, packed with logistics and contact numbers, at our meeting, they
started to recognize the importance of her role.

Perhaps the best measure of her enormous contribution was the fact that as soon as we finally reached Scotland, Mick, Nige, Charlie and Andy all told me they wanted to get her something special
to say thank you; thank you for those times she was there for us, coordinating and crisis-managing situations in real time. They all chipped in to buy her a glass and silver bowl, engraved with the
words ‘for always being there’.

Chloë had teamed up with our PR company, Liaison Media, which was headed up by a real live-wire of a guy called Alex Rayner. When Alex had first heard about our expedition he had suggested
he become involved, and had been immensely excited from day one. And it showed. ‘Ha,’ he would announce, having arranged another interview for one of us, ‘I just love this.’
And off he would go.

The final member of our base team was Andy Billing. He had agreed to build a website for the expedition, at minimal cost, and to keep it constantly updated, streaming information as we went
along. In the early days we were getting four hits a day, and that was probably me checking to see if anyone was visiting the site. However, during the expedition, as the dramas unfolded, we were
registering more than 30,000 hits every day. Andy was in his element. He was so enthusiastic, always obliging and above all professional. And everyone loved it whenever he appeared with his
customary greeting: ‘Good morning, fine sirs!’

Shara had decided she didn’t want to be alone in London while I was away. I agreed with her. She and Jesse would be much happier with her mother out of London. It would be quieter. Andy
agreed to live on our barge for the entire duration of the expedition: manning the phones by night. Just knowing he was always there to help Chloë and answer the telephone gave me the reassurance we all felt we needed. This was the final piece of the jigsaw.

In 2001
I was invited to become an ambassador for the Prince’s Trust. It was a huge honour and in return I promised that our next expedition would be in aid of the
charity. Ever since then, through various events I have been involved with, I have seen at first hand how effectively and genuinely the Trust provides thousands of young people in Britain with both
the incentive and the opportunity to build their dreams. It gives them a chance to get out there and do the very best they can, to start businesses, to find work. It offers a break to people who
would never normally get the chance. It is a brilliant idea and it changes lives.

I wrote to HRH The Prince of Wales, the founder of the charity, to explain that we would like his Trust to become our official beneficiary; I also asked if he might ever consider becoming the
patron of our expedition. He not only agreed to take on this role but also expressed the desire to meet the entire team before our departure. I couldn’t believe it.

On the appointed day, at the appointed time, smartly dressed in our expedition fleeces, we gathered at the barge and hailed a couple of taxis to take us to St James’s Palace. I had also
invited the two top execs from Arnold and Son, our title sponsors, Eric and Jean-Marie, as a small additional gesture of thanks to them for their support. They looked immaculate, dressed in their
suits.

The Prince had obviously been well briefed, and as he entered the room he walked towards me and started to mime the act of spraying deodorant under his arms. He was taking the mickey out of me
already, as I had recently featured in the Sure for Men deodorant TV commercials.

‘How is the deodorant?’ he asked playfully.

‘It’s fine, thank you, sir,’ I replied awkwardly.

Then, after a moment of silence, I added, ‘Well . . .’ I paused, ‘at least I wasn’t asked to do an advert for Anusol.’

My impromptu reference to a remedy for haemorrhoids prompted a rapid shuffling of feet behind me from the guys, but the Prince laughed and the ice was broken. He then told us how during his
naval career he had served on a frigate in the North Atlantic. He had encountered a storm so ferocious and powerful that the force of the waves had literally bent a reinforced steel ladder. He
looked at me intently.

‘And you’re going up there in a small rubber-tubed boat. What will you do in that kind of sea?’ he asked.

I paused awkwardly.

‘We’ll call you for some advice when that happens, sir, rest assured,’ I replied. There was more shuffling behind me.

He asked Nige how his astral navigation was coming along, and Nige admitted it was something of a grey area. The Prince laughed out loud. The atmosphere was light and fun, and we had some
photographs of us all taken outside afterwards.

‘Well, I think you’re all insane,’ the Prince concluded as he turned to leave, ‘but I’ll be thinking of you.’

As the final day of departure drew nearer, inevitably there were several last-minute crises that needed to be solved in a hurry. At one point Andy Leivers called to say he needed a particular
seal for the jet housing. If we couldn’t get this specific part quickly, plus a spare, the boat would not be able to leave for Canada, and we would suffer the consequences of that delay. The
ice was fragmenting now in the Arctic. The timing was perfect; we had no room for such a delay.

I was making a speech for Fujitsu on that particular morning, and I recall being backstage, all dressed up in my Everest climbing kit, waiting to go on. But I had to make the call to make sure
we got this seal, and I had to make it now. I was literally phoning the jet manufacturers when the master of ceremonies stood up to introduce me.

‘Can you get the part to the naval yard for tomorrow?’ I asked in hushed tones.

‘Yes, we can, if I get it sent this morning,’ said the voice of Martin Jackson, their marketing director, on the line.

‘Thanks, Martin. You’re a star. I’ve got to go. I’m onstage in five seconds. Bye.’

I took a deep breath and walked out onstage to another sea of faces. I was sweating already.

My two lives had almost overlapped, but luckily not quite collided.

The long-running debate
over how we would store the fuel reached a critical stage only two weeks before the boat was due to leave. It slowly dawned on us over the final
trials that if we were to get the necessary mileage and range, we would need to install an extra fuel bladder under the front deck of the boat. The area was meant to be our storage for food and
supplies, but would have to be sacrificed.

The problem was that this particular piece of specialist equipment had a list price of £15,000, and we didn’t have that sort of money left in the budget. It was a huge problem to be
faced with so late, and it threatened to hold up the entire effort.

I called one company, explained the situation, gave them the sales patter, and they responded by offering us a £500 discount on the fifteen grand. That was kind – of course, they
were not obliged to offer us anything at all – but I needed a better deal. In desperation I called the best company in the UK at designing such bladders, specialist suppliers to the armed
forces and much, much more expensive than £15,000. I phoned one of the directors at FPT Industries.

This time I simply told them what we were trying to do, what had happened and how desperate we were for help.

‘OK, we’ll be happy to help,’ said Mark Butler, the CEO.

He immediately dispatched a couple of his specialists to see the boat at the naval base in Portsmouth, and, over the next few days, in constant contact with Andy, FPT Industries completed an
intensely intricate and professional job.

The fuel bladder they fitted was custom-made from Kevlar, the bullet-proof and flame-resistant material they use to make fuel bladders for fighter planes. Nobody could say they weren’t
thorough! It was carefully moulded under the bow by a team of experts, plus Andy, and all for no charge at all. I was so grateful. At the final hurdle they had bust a gut, put other orders on hold
and cleared the way for us. They made me promise one thing: that we would ‘come home safe’.

Such generosity, such professional services so freely given, amazed me time and time again. I was deeply touched by the many companies, and indeed individuals, telling us that if we needed any
help at all, we only had to ask.

Perhaps this spirit originates from the maritime culture that if anyone is ever in trouble on the sea, ships in the vicinity will always offer assistance. It is a great culture and is one of the
great strengths of the climbing world as well: when lives are on the line, people drop everything to help.

As Captain Pennefather told us afterwards, the whole expedition grew to be much more than an attempt to complete a crossing or break a record. It involved hundreds of people in hundreds of ways,
all doing their bit and all as important as the next man. In many ways, we were just the front men for an extraordinary group of people behind the scenes who got us to the start line. In return, I
hoped our endeavour would continue to bring out that spirit in people and I wanted to do everything to make sure the magic got spread around.

The final morning before the boat was to leave for Canada was special. I had planned to be alone on board. It was very early on a grey, drizzly Monday morning when I drove down to Portsmouth and
went to fetch the boat from the naval base. The sea was glassy calm, disturbed only by the steady rain. I glanced at my watch and saw I had some time to spare before I was due to arrive at
Southampton docks, so I decided to make a slight detour, to the south and my childhood, and pointed the boat towards the Isle of Wight.

Everything was still and quiet when I arrived at Bembridge harbour, not a sound; but it had never been like this when I was a child. In the morning mist, all I could see was memories of jostling
boats and dinghies, me and my friends messing around, our fathers frantically shouting from the beach, of fun and happiness, of bumps and bruises and laughter, above all of laughter. Right there I
felt Dad standing quietly beside me.

The engine was scarcely idling as I chugged quietly around the harbour. And, as if from somewhere deep inside, I found tears were now running freely down my cheeks for the first time in
ages.

I passed slowly by the pontoon at the Sailing Club. The members of this club had so much wanted to support this expedition; they were awash with friendship but not with funds. None the less,
they organized a whip-round in the bar for the Prince’s Trust, and I placed their sticker on the boat. That was the only logo placed on the boat for free. It was different. It was part of
me.

As I left Bembridge harbour, I found myself waving nostalgically, not at anyone or anything in particular, just waving goodbye.

When I eventually reached Southampton, I tied up near an enormous container ship alongside massive grey fenders that dwarfed our tiny boat. Everything suddenly felt very small. A huge crane
swung over and plucked the boat out and on to a trailer. The tubes were deflated, and everything was neatly packed away before our precious cargo was steered through the vast gates in the bow,
right into the guts of the ship.

Between us, we had designed and built what must have been one of the most advanced RIBs in the world. But beside this cavernous container ship it looked like a Dinky toy. As she disappeared from
view, I felt that sense of sadness you experience when you reach the end of a long road.

There had been many days when the expedition seemed unlikely to get off the ground, but now we were here on the docks. The next time I would see her would be in a very different harbour,
thousands of miles away and further north, on the remote Nova Scotia coastline. I was meant to be doing a BBC TV interview on the quayside but found it hard to make much sense. The container
ship’s gates closed. I glanced over my shoulder and our RIB was gone.

There wasn’t much more we could now do. For the first time in months, the kit was ready and packed, the boat had gone, the logistics were in place as far as they could be, and the
team’s mood was high. The final countdown had started, and this stage can be frightening. Everything goes quiet and, maybe for the first time in ages, you have the opportunity to think about
what really lies ahead.

I was beginning to understand a bit more now about what we were undertaking. It was no longer happening ‘next year’. It was almost upon us; and suddenly it felt so soon.

Shara had given birth
to our son Jesse only four weeks earlier. It had been the most intense and intimate day of my life. He was perfect, and Shara, in those moments,
had looked so alive. But in those first few weeks afterwards, I began to feel real doubts about everything ahead. I wasn’t even sure why I was leaving at all, and when I sat and thought about
it, I felt utterly torn.

It had been different with the Everest expedition. Then I was younger and maybe more rash, but Everest had changed me. When friends die in the mountains, you reconsider what those odds really
mean. They are not just statistics any longer. They are real, and if you play them often enough you don’t always come out on top.