Bear Grylls (49 page)

We were starting to quieten into our own worlds, checking and rechecking, lashing ourselves to the boat when we moved around, taking nothing for granted, keeping our own personal grab bags
clipped to our waists. These small waterproof holdalls contained essential items such as a torch, a knife, a hand-held VHF radio and mini-flares.

Each of us was well stocked with anti-sickness pills, and these were working well. I took my pills on the dot every eight hours. I had to keep alert and avoid that debilitating sense of feeling
wretched and disoriented.

The seasickness, we soon discovered, was often worst in the sardine tin, and if it hit you, it was utterly incapacitating. You lie there, desperately needing some decent rest, overwhelmed by the
invasive smell of diesel and the deafening roar of the engine, and you are wet and cold. You can taste the salt water in your mouth and your nostrils are sore and raw, and your stomach churns, and
nothing can stop it. You want nothing more than to curl up and die.

They say seasickness has two stages: one is when you don’t care if you die; the second is when you start praying to die.

Whenever anybody was sick over the side, it was vital to try to rehydrate afterwards. You’d have to pump water from the large jerry cans strapped to the side of the console and start
drinking again. It was the last thing you felt like doing, but it was absolutely necessary to recover your strength.

‘Drink water. Replace the liquids. Keep drinking.’ This became one of our mantras. Experience had told us that dehydration could be a big issue in an open boat, especially when it is
rough. The sheer amount of waves and spray that was eventually to come over us meant that we swallowed a lot of salt water – it was impossible to avoid. This means your salt intake becomes
very high and you need twice the amount of fresh water to compensate. But on the sea you never feel like drinking, which is why it has to be a discipline.

As we progressed, the rota seemed to be settling down and working well. We had decided to sustain a five-hour rota. Each crew member would helm for an hour, navigate for an hour, spend the next
hour sitting in the ‘deckchair’, a piece of rubber material on one side, slung between two metal struts and angled down, and lastly rest in the sardine tin for two hours. Every hour on
the hour, almost without exception, the five of us rotated religiously through this circuit of tasks and responsibilities.

Our concept was logical and straightforward: make the big challenges manageable by breaking them into smaller tasks. We reckoned that on a 1,000-mile leg you had to have something short-term to
focus on. The days and hours passed very slowly sometimes, especially if you were sick. It was much easier to focus on getting through a single hour and then addressing a new situation than it was
to have nothing to think about apart from watching the GPS plotter and seeing how slowly we were moving.

We humans are creatures of habit and we need something to focus on. This routine was something tangible that would hold us together when it struck rough, and I was determined that whatever
happened, we would stick to it. Even when you were resting in the sardine tin, after one hour you would roll over to the other side as the guy to your right got up, and another body crawled in to
your left.

There were times in those early days when we would be coasting along in calm seas under clear skies and one of us would suggest we stayed as we were because everyone was OK, but I was adamant we
stuck to the rota.

This was our discipline. In extreme environments people depend on routines, and the more familiar you are with the routine, the less frightening the unfamiliar becomes. On the ocean, life gets
much easier when you have something you can hold on to, something you know is predictable and reliable and constant. Whatever else might change, I wanted the rota to remain on track.

The only drawback of the system was that you had to get on well with whoever was next to you. The rota meant you really only had regular contact with the people either side of you. When the seas
were rough, you would be wearing your helmet and full survival suit, and, even though you were sharing a living space of a few square yards, you would scarcely be aware of the other two members of
the crew one seat away from you. It sounds strange, but at various stages of the expedition twenty-four hours would pass during which I would not see Andy even though we were never more than a yard
apart.

Mick just loved this. He would say that this was his ideal holiday: no chit-chat, no small-talk, just the roar of the engine. He announced that if the rota format could be duplicated in England,
life would definitely be better. This is a sure sign that a man is working too hard and getting too many phone calls.

Growing used to our equipment, and settling into the hourly routine, we continued to make good progress, at times reaching speeds of 25 knots as the following seas propelled the boat
forward.

I remembered how Andy had told me one evening that one of the reasons why he was so keen to do this expedition was his desire to experience some unusual sea conditions and, towards evening on
this first day out of Port aux Basques, it was beginning to happen. We were being treated to the spectacular sensation of ‘surfing’ on big ocean breakers.

We had been aware of the sea building in size and strength throughout the day. Increasingly powerful waves would roll up from behind and raise the boat high above the ocean; then the crest of
the wave would break, and we would surge forward. It was amazing. We would look back to see the wave frothing away in white water and, within moments, another surge of marine power would lift us
high once again.

Roller followed roller, surge followed surge.

By dusk, the dense fog was returning, but we were still surfing forward at good speeds, more than ever trusting in our instruments to keep us on course. I started to wonder what would happen if
while racing down one of these rollers we were propelled into a collision with an iceberg. At these speeds, and in the dark, we would have no time to react with the energy of the waves behind us.
It was not a good thought, but I consoled myself by remembering being told that at this time of year we would not hit ice until much further north. We had to trust that and keep the speed on
through the fog.

It had been
a strange kind of day.

First the fog, then the falling temperatures, then the slowly swelling waves, then the darkness, finally all of this together. Piece by piece, element by element, the ocean seemed to be
assembling its forces against us. Individually, none of these factors would have been a concern but, as they all massed together that first night, each of us had the distinct feeling that we were
entering a new phase of the expedition. We were beginning the work in earnest. The playtime was over and we were entering the arena where mistakes would become extremely costly.

Each mile travelled to the north felt like a mile travelled to a different level. It was exciting, it was what we had put so much time and energy into preparing for, but I would be lying if I
did not admit that my heart was beginning to pound.

The distant flash of a lighthouse through the mist and darkness reminded us how close we were to the coast, as the Belle Isle Strait narrowed towards its most northerly gap. The boat really
needed to be driven now. Concentrate. Control her. Compensate for the power of the waves pulling you off course. Feel her.

The RIB was built for these conditions and she was thriving in the surf and this was what we had trained for. This was why we were here. There was nobody else around: just the waves, the fog,
the boat and the five of us. This was living; these were the moments when I felt most alive.

As we approached the Strait, now only 50 miles to the north, I found myself privately trying to work out how the rota would unfold; who would be helming at the critical hour, guiding us through
the currents and funnel of sea and racing tidal water. It would be me or Mick; I knew Mick would be thinking the same.

It was going to be difficult. There were no stars out, and in the fog it would be easy to lose all sense of direction and perspective.

At around midnight, when Charlie was at the helm, we found ourselves travelling in completely the wrong direction before he made a 180-degree turn and set us back on course. He cursed himself
out loud, but it was so easy to do. The horizon and sea become a confused blend of rolling blackness. The chart-plotter screen is an eye-aching blur of green and reds. Tiredness pounds at your
eyelids. The waves yank you violently off course and every small over-correction is replicated by the jet drive at the stern. The boat is so sensitive to helm.

Just before 1 a.m., I came off watch and Mick took over. It would be he who would helm us through the Belle Isle Strait ahead. He needed his concentration now and we all knew it. None of us
slept and we all sat up and watched him guide us through, struggling to keep us on course in the roar of the surf behind.

It felt as if we were riding some kind of wild beast, all the time knowing that we could never be completely in control of something so powerful and untameable. As we surged forward, I found
myself praying again that there would be no ice.

Again and again the boat rose and fell, as huge waves lifted her hull before throwing us down the face of the wave in front.

Both time and sea were now racing.

An hour later, I was crouching down in the pitch black beside the console with my torch, trying to check one of the fuel gauges, when the boat was hit violently by a wave side-on. My head
smashed against the metal console and I slumped back into the seat holding my forehead in my hands.

I shouted out loud, my eyes closed tight. I was feeling dazed and soon I had a splitting headache.

Charlie asked, ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I replied, wincing. ‘Can you hold the torch while I just recheck this fuel gauge.’

This was always a tricky task; the fuel was stored in four areas and, for reasons relating to the distribution of weight and maximizing the boat’s performance, we needed to drain the fuel
from the centre tank first, then from the tanks on the side and lastly from the bladder at the front.

The whole system operated on a complex series of fuel drain levers and manifolds. Andy had marked them all for us to be able to read and understand, even at night.

I was on my knees trying to check the dial of the centre tank we were using, just to make sure it wasn’t time to change over. This check involved pumping air into the tank and giving the
dial time to settle before taking the reading.

‘It looks fine,’ I shouted to Charlie who was right next to me. ‘The reading looks OK.’

The engine typically ticks over at 2,600 revs per minute, producing a roar that would seem invasive for a short period but which, for us on the ocean, became almost hypnotically comforting after
a while. That roar represented raw power and movement in the right direction, homewards. We grew to love it.

Fifteen minutes later, for no apparent reason, the noise began to die. The revs plummeted. Then it stopped. All of a sudden, our loud mechanical world plunged into a terrifying silence. From 450
hp to nothing, the boat was now running on momentum. The engine was dead.

Our hearts stopped.

It was approaching 2.30 a.m., and we were still in the last port of the Strait. Everyone was immediately awake and alert, fired with adrenalin, desperately trying to work out what needed to be
done. Andy had been in the sardine tin, but he was out on his feet in a second, checking the levers, the filters, the engine monitoring systems, all lightning-fast, instinctively moving into
reaction mode.

‘Get the engine lid up now,’ he said calmly and firmly.

The rest of us reached for the latches and lifted the lid, as our naval engineer set about his work.

‘She’s out of fuel,’ he said, his face contorting with strain as he grappled with the engine primer. ‘We need to act fast. The turbo is not going to like this at
all.’

He started frantically pumping the engine primer; pumping then priming. I stood over him, acutely aware that we were drifting powerlessly in one of the world’s most treacherous stretches
of water, vulnerable to any rogue wave.

Without the roar of the engine, for the first time we could hear the wind licking violently off the waves. It was much stronger, much more threatening than I had realized.

The sea was churning white and black, and suddenly we were just a little boat at the mercy of the sea. With no propulsion from the engine, we would have no ability to respond if one of these
rollers hit us side-on. In the darkness, in what was the first major crisis of the expedition, I just hoped and prayed that Andy could get her working again.

Time seemed to be suspended.

We waited and waited.

Two and a half minutes passed like hours.

Then Andy looked at me, then back at the engine, and said loudly, ‘Try her now.’

I took a breath and turned the key in the ignition.

There was a bubbling noise, a spluttering.

Then nothing.

‘Again, Bear,’ he said. ‘And hold it.’

I did.

A deeper noise, and then a different noise, and then finally that comforting roar as the engine sprang into life and the boat came alive again.

Several hours later, Mick told me how his legs had turned to jelly when he heard that silence descend. Mine had too, and they stayed that way for several hours afterwards.

‘Well done, buddy,’ I said to Andy. ‘Good work.’

‘The central tank was empty. But I don’t know how. Who last checked it?’

Central tank? Empty?

I knew what they meant.

‘It was me,’ I told everyone over the roar of the engine. ‘I’m so sorry. I must have misread it. It won’t happen again, I promise.’

We carried on in silence.

I knew I had caused the crisis. I had checked that tank just a few moments before and I must have misread the dial. Hitting my head was no excuse. I was angry with myself. It could have been
disastrous. How could I have been so stupid, so careless?