Authors: Bear Grylls
Bear Grylls (54 page)
Meanwhile, nothing was giving at all. We were still battling against the brutal ocean. Waves as large as houses kept thundering towards us, picking us up, dumping us down and soaking us in icy
water. Perhaps it was the cold and fatigue, but I started to personify the waves. To me, as they flew past, they seemed to turn and look at us strangely, as if they were asking, ‘What the
hell are you doing out here in such a boat?’
I didn’t have an answer. Then the wave was gone.
We were all becoming frightened and I knew it; we were so completely exposed and vulnerable, dangerously out of place.
I prayed again.
‘Please, God, please calm these seas,’ I said under my breath, lying in the sardine tin, hugging Mick in front of me not just to keep warm, but because I was scared.
‘You’ve helped me so many times before, but I really need you now. I really need you to hear me. I really need you to help us.’
None of us had managed more than a brief doze over the past two days, and a couple of hours later I was helming again. For this particular shift, from 11 p.m. till midnight, Charlie and I sat
shoulder to shoulder at the console, fighting to keep the boat on course and under control.
As I helmed, I noticed a small piece of coloured plastic flapping around on the anchor, attached to the foredeck. I knew it was some sort of Chinese lucky charm that a stranger had placed on the
side of the boat while a bunch of well-wishers were crowding around us on the quay in Halifax, Canada. Most of them had draped flowers and things on the boat, but this particular woman had
presented this small, peculiar token.
I saw her, and didn’t really like the idea of the charm, but it would have been rude not to accept the gesture and I let it pass. I hadn’t given it another thought until now –
in trouble, so far out in the ocean. I began to wonder whether this could be the reason why God was not answering my prayers. Maybe this charm was keeping His goodness out. It sounds crazy and
superstitious now, but right there, in the darkness, I was clutching at anything and praying like never before. I was desperate.
As the minutes passed, I felt compelled somehow to get rid of the charm. Everything might be OK then, I thought. The sea might die down. ‘Just forget it and concentrate, Bear,’ I
told myself.
But the more I dismissed this idea as ridiculous, the more I believed it to be the case. And a minute later, it was all I could think about again. I couldn’t take my eyes off this ruddy
little plastic thing, swinging hypnotically with the motion of the bow.
The problem was, however, that it was wrapped around the anchor arm at the very front of the boat, and I knew that getting to that area would be extremely risky, especially while the boat was
being thrown around in the storm. One slip on those slippery tubes, one awkward pitch of the boat, and I could easily be washed overboard. My lifeline should hold me, but at 10 knots, in the black
of night, in these waves, I would be dragged until I drowned.
‘Forget it,’ I told myself. ‘God might not like the charm, but He doesn’t want to me drown either.’
I did forget about it.
For about thirty seconds.
Damn it, I had to get rid of that thing. Charlie hadn’t noticed this and I didn’t want to tell him what was on my mind. He would have said to stay put and that I was being
irrational, which may have been true. So I made up a story about the sea anchor looking as if it was coming loose from its housing. That would do.
‘Don’t bother, Bear,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s fine.’
‘No,’ I persisted. ‘I’m going. Take the helm.’
So I slid from my seat and began to fumble for my harness. I swung myself over the edge of the console and began to edge, step by step, along the tubes, round to the front of the boat.
Once on the foredeck, I grabbed for the handholds and steadied myself as she pitched on top of another wave. Water flooded over the tubes and all around my feet. I snatched at the charm. It
wouldn’t come away because it had become tangled around the anchor warp. I yanked again, but still it wouldn’t break. I was becoming annoyed. So, summoning every bit of strength left
after two nights without sleep, I grabbed it and pulled.
It finally came free, and I hurled it into the waves.
On reaching Charlie again, I felt a surge of relief. I again took the helm and waited . . . waited for the miracle of calm seas. But the sea never even looked like subsiding. It stayed just as
rough through both our shifts, and I was tiring.
This vast ocean just didn’t care about us, didn’t care if we reached Greenland or not, if we capsized and drowned. It was so immense, and we were so very small. This can be the
sea’s greatest quality – the way it reminds us of our own mortality. But that reminder is also very humbling. Being big or brave doesn’t seem to count for much. In fact, even just
trying your best and slogging your guts out means very little. It is irrelevant, and only the sea decides who wins the battle.
All we could do was endure. Waiting, like ants on a motorway.
Once again, as shadows of exasperation closed in, I reached for the Dictaphone’s pouch and pressed record . . .
I am getting exhausted. The other guys are as well. They are doing so well, trying to knuckle through this thing, but it has been exhausting. I just want to get to Greenland.
I am going to sleep, and I’m not going to move for six months. I don’t care. I’m not going on another adventure like this. It’s too intense, too exhausting. It’s so
different from climbing Everest: there we had that stillness, and you could always climb into a tent and get away. But this is so relentless – the pounding and the wet. There is no escape.
I just long for it to be calm.
This is an endurance exercise, and it gets much more frightening at night, because you just can’t see the waves. All you see is the white water.
We’re still going at 8 knots, not much faster than running pace. But the guys have been incredible. I feel so genuinely proud of them right now. I thought the people without military
backgrounds would be struggling, but Nige and Charlie have been an inspiration.
Charlie happened to be helming when I climbed along to the foredeck. My whole life was in his hands, and he held everything together. Not long ago, he was asking for advice, but now he has
mastered the helm, he’s in control, and I trust him completely. That’s very special.
Nige is coping amazingly, considering. He’s wet through and should be bloody miserable, but he just turned to me to say he could murder a Danish pastry and a cappuccino. He smiled
faintly. But Nige’s great quality is that he just gets on with things. It’s these small things that make such a huge difference.
So much can go wrong on this boat: if the engine stops, we’re in big trouble; if the forecast is wrong, we’re in big trouble; if the navigation is not done properly, we’re
lost. But each of these guys has taken responsibility for his job, and everyone trusts that person to do it. Not just with words but with their life.
Things are really bad right now, but there’s something pretty unique about this situation: five men in a small boat, all trusting one another, looking after one another. Caring.
I had told everyone so often that there would be times when we would be at our wits’ ends, but also that it is in those times that I need them to give that little bit extra. To laugh, to
watch out for someone as they pee, to dig out a chocolate bar for the guy on watch, when you’re exhausted. This is what really matters, and they have all done this over and over again.
These four guys are just bloody brilliant British people. They show so much quiet, cheerful strength, and yet I know how cold and wet they are because I can feel them shivering alongside me. I
will buy the biggest round ever if we reach Greenland, I promise.
When I finished recording these thoughts, it took me some time to push the stop button on the Dictaphone. It should have been the simplest task, but my fingers were numb, and I fumbled around
angrily for several minutes.
By midnight, three o’clock in the morning back home, I decided to call Chloë again, to keep her informed of our progress and to check that the Danish navy had been alerted to our
situation.
I got through second go this time and told her our status.
‘And one other thing,’ I added.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Can you call Charlie Mackesy and ask him to pray for us? He’ll understand, even if it is three in the morning. I really need his help.’
Charlie was my best man at our wedding and one of my closest friends. An artist in London, he is also Jesse’s godfather, and in this desperate situation I needed to feel that he was
praying for us, praying that everything would somehow be all right.
Charlie recalls:
I was staying with my sister in Yorkshire, fast asleep when the mobile rang under my pillow. I woke up, looked at the display, saw it was Chloë and immediately knew Bear
was either in real trouble or was dead. It would have to be something terrible for her to call me at three o’clock in the morning.
She told me Bear wanted me to pray for him because he was stuck in this storm. It was getting worse, there were icebergs about and he didn’t think he was going to get out of it.
To be honest, I wasn’t feeling very full of any sort of faith at the time, but I went downstairs, sat quietly in a chair and said a prayer. I simply asked God to calm the storm. I slowly
became aware of a strange, but very clear image, where it was pitch black, ice was everywhere and people were screaming. I prayed for it to go quiet, and then fell asleep in the chair. I woke up
in the early hours of the morning with a sense of calm, and went back upstairs to bed with no idea what had happened.
Meanwhile, three of us were soon back in the sardine tin, once again trying to ignore the stinging, salty spray and the relentless battering of being lifted up and then thumped down. I was done
in. I lay there, wedged against Nige and Mick, and out of sheer exhaustion I somehow fell asleep. It was a magic relief from the grim reality of our slow-burning failure.
I woke with a start. It was just after 5.30 a.m., and immediately I became aware that something was different. The boat was planing. We were surging forward smoothly and the sea was
millpond-calm. I blinked hard, suspended in that demi-world between sleep and being awake. I blinked again.
This was for real.
Andy and Charlie were helming, and chatting. Then Andy turned towards me and smiled.
‘Things are starting to look up, Bear,’ he said. ‘We’re doing twenty-two knots.’
I sat up and looked around. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The sea had just died away. The apparently endless storm had ended. The sky was clear blue. It was a beautiful day. I sat and
stared.
‘We’ve got about 400 litres in the centre line tank,’ Andy continued. ‘I think we might just do it.’
He grinned at me.
Elated, I began to get up from the sardine tin. For the first time, we had a real chance of making it.
I knew we should call the base team in London, just to let them know our situation had improved, and I duly phoned Chloë. She in turn contacted Shara to say everything was all right; Shara
then phoned Charlie Mackesy in Yorkshire, just to let him know all was well and that his prayers had been answered. Charlie suddenly adopted this guru-like status. It was very funny. But God had
shone on us very clearly and I was in no doubt of that at all.
We were not quite out of trouble but we were all beginning to believe we could make it to Greenland. Everybody was wide awake, enjoying the sunshine and our newfound speed. Andy was carefully
monitoring the fuel situation, with Charlie helping him read the dials. Mick’s lifejacket had also gone off sometime during the last twenty-four hours, and he and Nige were laughing at
themselves, looking like drowned rats dressed in bright yellow blow-up jackets. It was our finest time on the entire expedition so far. We forgot the wet, the cold and the hunger and enjoyed being
able to talk for the first time in days. The wind had disappeared and the boat was flying.
At last, at 9 a.m., Greenland appeared on the horizon.
We were still 65 nautical miles offshore, but even from that distance we could identify the gigantic mountains and broken glaciers of this, the largest and most remote island on the planet.
‘How are we doing on fuel, Andy?’
He looked up from the console. ‘I’m trying to drain all the different tanks into one. It’s hard to tell exactly but we’re still going, eh?’
The sea was like glass, and there was a crisp chill in the air. I had never before seen sea like glass at that distance offshore. It was incredible, and I felt the mercy of God that morning. We
were exhausted, but we were so relieved.
Seagulls were swooping above us, playful puffins fluttered frantically in front of our bow, and stunning-shaped icebergs were dotted along the coastline as far as we could see. The miles were
dropping off behind us fast. It was a dream.
We eventually eased carefully past a cluster of giant growler icebergs that surrounded the small harbour of Nanortalik. They floated freely, sculpted like vast statues, and you could see their
huge mass of cobalt blue ice under the surface of the calm water. We had finally reached Greenland.
We were met
at the small harbour pier by the mayor and a group of locals. They held out strong hands to help us ashore. I had never felt so pleased to arrive
anywhere.
Andy took a look at the last tank.
‘How much fuel is left?’
‘About fifty litres, I reckon,’ Andy replied.
Fifty litres? That was perhaps enough to have kept us going for another half-hour on the ocean. We had started the leg with 4,000 litres. Fifty? It was the tightest of margins. It was nothing.
Bluntly put, if that storm had raged for thirty minutes longer, we would not have made it. It had been that close.
We had been lucky, very lucky. I knew that, and I was with four men who were deeply grateful to reach dry land.
We all were desperate to lie down and sleep, but first there were a couple of SAT phone calls to be made.