Bear Grylls (56 page)

The first ten hours
of this leg unfolded as one of those experiences that will remain with me for ever. It was a privilege to behold.

Our route took us down the south-west coast of Greenland and then through the Prince Christiansen Sound, effectively cutting off the southern cape of Greenland and bringing us out on the eastern
side. The natural features of Prince Christiansen Sound are some of the most remote and unsung beauties of the world. Maybe this is what makes them so magical. They are so rarely seen.

I can only think of one word to describe our reaction as we began to weave our way through the sheer fjords in front of us: stunned.

Sheer, vertical walls of rock, at least 2,000 feet high, rose straight out of the water into giant, snow-capped, jagged peaks. The depth of this fjord was such that it went off the scale of our
instruments. Several times, we took the boat up to the rock face, stared upwards, and marvelled at these natural skyscrapers.

This was a living, changing landscape. Glaciers tumbled down thousands of feet into the still, icy water. I had seen icefalls on Everest, where the frozen ice ruptures and breaks its way
dramatically down cliff faces. But here, the glacier crashed directly into the fjord.

Thousands of pieces of ice, ranging from small lumps to enormous bergs, were floating in the water, and it was exhilarating to see and feel the ice knocking against the aluminium hull, as we
wove our way through the bergs. The
Arnold and Son Explorer
had been designed for these conditions, and it eased its way elegantly through the Sound.

Twice, the black mass of a whale appeared, suddenly rising out of the water within 50 yards of the boat and then disappearing with a casual swish of its 6-foot tail. It was unbelievable to sit
and watch.

We passed through this wonderland in awe. The sun was bright in the midday sky, without a cloud in sight, and we were dressed in light clothes and fleeces. For the only time on the entire
expedition we let the rota slip, each of us simply took turns in helming, while the rest sprawled out on the foredeck, writing diaries, listening to their Walkmans or just basking in the wonder of
this place. It was a special time and for once we could recoup a bit of energy. We would need it.

Not another person for miles around; just us, in this frozen paradise.

Charlie recalls:

We all felt a sense of peace, a quiet contentment. It was the moment I had hungered for so much. It was just nature and my friends. Pure magic.

These beautiful, isolated places, where just one hidden rockface, high above a glistening glacier, stands out so proud and majestic, feed a man’s soul. They are untouched by human contact,
like a tiny flower in a dense jungle that serves no purpose for mankind – a flower that will remain unseen for ever. To me, such places are simply God’s extravagance.

We had come to this place, far from civilization and completely uninhabited, and we found glaciers, mountains and icebergs that were truly exquisite. But we knew it couldn’t last for ever,
and all of us dreaded the next bend in the fjord being the last.

Eventually we turned the final corner of the Sound and were confronted by 20 miles of fjord leading straight to the ocean. This spectacular stretch of water was bordered on either side by even
larger mountains, which would part every once in a while to afford a glimpse of the snow-capped plateaux of Greenland behind.

But our gaze was fixed on what lay ahead of us in the open seas, and for the first time that day we could feel the cold Arctic wind on our faces. This wind was being funnelled down the fjord but
it was nothing violent, just a stiff, steady breeze, almost like a warning. It was announcing the ocean ahead. And it was beckoning us forward.

Each of us put on extra fleeces and began to clamber into our survival suits. We made certain everything was correctly stowed and the boat properly organized. We had learnt a lot from the
Labrador: about rough-water stowing of food and supplies, about waterproofing kit effectively, about wearing the right amount of layers. In some ways, we had been caught out by that storm, and we
didn’t want to make the same mistakes again. Everyone could feel the stakes were rising.

Before long we were dressed in our full gear – balaclavas, helmets, inner and outer gloves, two pairs of thermal socks, five layers of clothing under the dry-suits, the lot – and a
quietness, a tension descended on the boat. It was 7.20 p.m. We could hardly move now, we were so bulked up. But experience had taught us to be ready. We sat in silence. The mouth of the fjord was
still flat calm, with only the ripples of the funnelled wind bristling on the water.

‘OK, Nige, how far to Iceland?’ I asked.

‘In a straight line, 630 nautical miles,’ he replied.

‘All right then, with a bit of luck we should reach Reykjavik by 15.30 hrs the day after tomorrow.’

As we reached the edge of the fjord, where the Sound runs into the wide open ocean and the Denmark Strait, we stopped one last time. The boat idled lazily, dwarfed by the glaciers and cliffs on
either side of us. We had one last SAT phone call to make.

Mike Town was waiting for us to call. He checked the weather forecast again. It was still clear for the next thirty-six hours, with Force Fives or Sixes coming up towards Iceland after that. If
we could be within reach of Iceland by that time, we could manage these winds for the last stage into port. That was good enough for us. Now we just had one last box to tick before we set out to
sea.

Tucked into the edge of the cliffs, at the mouth of the Sound, is one of the remotest weather stations in this part of the world. The scientists there are more familiar than anyone with these
waters, and they understand how unpredictable they can be. Their advice would be invaluable.

We saw their aerials and a cluster of huts from a few miles down the Sound, and we managed to get them on the radio.

‘Hi. Where are you heading?’ they asked.

‘To Iceland,’ I replied.

There was a pause.

‘What’s the weather looking like?’ I continued. I didn’t want to put words in their mouths.

‘Well, it looks good for twenty-four hours, then it
should
be OK for another twelve hours after that; then it’s deteriorating towards Iceland. It depends on how fast that low
pressure sweeps north. But I reckon you should be OK. Wouldn’t you like a cup of tea and something to eat before you leave?’

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but we’re all dressed up like astronauts and ready to go. We really ought to keep moving.’

We thanked them and signed off.

The forecasts sounded consistent with what we had had from the UK, but I also knew we were moving into some of the most uncharted waters on the planet. The US military had only recently put
weather buoys in place to measure the wave heights. They had no need for such data previously.

We had taken good advice, we knew the facts and we were going for it. I packed the SAT phone away in its watertight pouch in the console and crawled back out.

We were still drifting around slowly, weaving among a small cluster of icebergs in the last little inlet before the ocean. It was as if these small bergs were wary of moving into the open seas.
To be honest, I felt a little bit the same.

We eased the throttle open, turned the boat’s nose from land and headed out into the Denmark Strait between Greenland and Iceland, and almost 700 miles of open sea.

In all my research, I hadn’t found much about this part of the route. What I did discover in one geographical document was pretty blunt: ‘The Denmark Strait is one of the most
difficult of large ocean straits in which to carry out any sort of research. Inhospitable weather and the frequent presence of ice make ship operation severely difficult. Try somewhere
warmer.’

This wasn’t quite what I was looking for.

As we headed away from the ice plateaux of the Greenland coastline, the sea was glassy-calm before us. Not even a ripple of wind now anywhere.

‘It’s like the
Marie Céleste
,’ Nige said.

He was right.

We had reached the ocean to find, not the severe conditions that we had feared, but an eerie stillness. Dusk was falling, the sea was like a mirror, and a dense fog was descending. Before long
it had completely obscured Greenland from sight.

I knew what Nige meant. It did feel as though we had been transported to the
Marie Céleste,
the fabled ship that was found drifting on the ocean, untouched and unmanned.

A flock of puffins were floundering around in the water, and as we headed towards them they flapped awkwardly as they tried to take off. How the hell did such small, clumsy birds survive the
storms these waters must see? I had no idea. They looked so fragile and out of place. But they did, and it was spectacular and humbling to watch these wonders of nature fussing all around us.

We were managing a speed of only 13 knots because the boat was still so heavy with fuel at the start of such a long leg, but the rocking motion of the gently rolling waves was ideal for sleep.
As we maintained the rota, each of us managed to get some rest during our hours in the sardine tin.

It was a glorious night and I remember waking apprehensively, opening my eyes and half expecting to find the sea churning and throwing the boat around, but it wasn’t. It was still
calm.

However, I still felt very nervous. I wasn’t sure why.

I knew that every hour that passed was an hour nearer Iceland, but I longed to go faster, to get more miles under our belt while the weather was so good.

‘How are we doing?’ I asked Mick.

‘Yeah, it looks OK,’ he replied. ‘We’ve done 205 miles since we left.’

I looked around the boat. Everything was neat and ready, and everyone was resting.

The dawn felt a little cooler, but that was to be expected; we were heading in a north-easterly direction all the time, towards a latitude of 64 degrees north. It was still calm as we ploughed
on through the gentle rollers.

A few hours later, Charlie and I were sitting together at the console when, out of nowhere, we were confronted by a cruise ship ahead on the horizon. It had been a real surprise to me that we
had seen so little other shipping on the expedition so far. I had expected to see much more. The truth was that this was the first ship we had seen in almost 2,000 miles. We were so excited. I
tried to raise the captain on the radio, to get some further info on the weather conditions ahead (even though there wasn’t much we would have been able to do about it out here).

We couldn’t see the name of the vessel. So we tried this instead:

‘Hello, big ship, this is little yellow boat.’

A Danish voice replied, ‘Hello, how are you?’

‘Fine,’ I responded. ‘Just fine.’

He said he had heard about our expedition, and he wished us luck. I detected an element of foreboding in his voice when he said that the ‘fair weather had lasted well in the Denmark
Strait’. He asked if there was much ice around the southern edges of Greenland, where he was heading, and we told him it was broken up and passable.

As he spoke, a cluster of people appeared on the deck of the cruise ship. They were all peering down on the small yellow boat passing in the shadow of their ship. We just sat there, feeling a
bit ridiculous and very small, imagining what they were thinking.

‘Oh well,’ said Mick, waving from the sardine tin, ‘at least the captain won’t be getting too many complaints from his passengers about the state of their cabins. I think
we have given them a new perspective on the words “living quarters”.’

It was nearly midday on Thursday, our second day at sea after leaving Greenland, conditions were still good and we were making reasonable progress. If our weather forecasts were right, there was
almost another twenty-four hours in our window of decent weather, and that should be enough time to get us within reach of Iceland. All seemed well and we had no reason to imagine that anything
would change.

We noticed
the wind freshen into the afternoon. It was not dramatic, but it was marked. Where we had been expecting Force Four, we were moving into Force Five winds.

But that was OK, I told myself. The bad weather was still 1,000 miles to our south.

Or it was supposed to be.

By evening, the sea was building and the spray had returned, every thirty seconds or so, cold and uncomfortable, and I started to notice the movement of the boat becoming more pronounced. She
was taking these head-on waves well, digging the deep-V hull into the water as it rose to meet her bows.

It wasn’t too bad.

‘It’s OK, isn’t it?’ I said to Nige that second evening.

‘Yep, this is nothing like the Labrador,’ he replied.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No dramas.’

Three hours later, I happened to glance over at Nige. It was our habit to keep a vague look out for each other. I looked again. He was staring intently at his watch. I knew what he was staring
at. His barometer.

A barometer simply measures the air pressure, but it is still, in this modern age of electronics, the most accurate and reliable indicator of any bad weather ahead. It had read 1,026 millibars
when we left Greenland and had remained pretty much unchanged ever since.

But something had obviously changed now. Nige looked blank and frightened.

I was watching him.

‘What’s it say?’ I asked.

‘It dropped to 996 millibars,’ he replied. ‘That’s impossible. I have never seen anything like this before.’