by Robson Green
This is not good news. I need to be back for Taylor’s parent-teacher meeting and to film Joe Maddison’s War with Kevin Whately and Derek Jacobi, but I can’t think of that right now. I am so poorly and now it’s gushing out of both ends. I take to my bed. Besides, I can think of worse places to be trapped. It suddenly hits me that we are stuck in the world’s biggest open prison. For some reason I start thinking about Jeffrey Archer. He went to an open prison and could go home from time to time and work in a theatre, and he got to keep his title. That doesn’t sound like punishment to me, but then I can’t remember what he actually did. Was he charged with crimes against literature? OMG, I might be charged with crimes against music. But if I go down I’m taking Simon Cowell and Louis Walsh with me.
‘Robson. Robson!’
‘Yes?’
Alistair is staring at me. I realise I am delirious with dehydration.
Patrick fetches a doctor from the village. He checks me over and gives me a potion to get rid of a parasitic infection, most probably amoebic dysentery. Lord knows how I got it but somehow I did. That night I sleep soundly and so does my bottom.
Salmon Fishing Part Deux
We still can’t leave Patagonia so it looks as if we’re going to have to make the best of the situation. One thing the protesters can’t stop us doing is fishing, especially with the Serrano River located right by the hotel. We have another chance of catching a giant chinook with Patrick. But before we start fishing, we start off by setting the mood. Patrick plays the guitar, I sing, and Alistair has written us a song to perform. We sit next to the Serrano on chairs, wearing shades, while Patrick strums his guitar and we perform the Chilean Blues.
I woke up this morning
I couldn’t get out
I couldn’t get about
Need to catch me a trout
It may be fate
It may be a fluke
But I need to catch me a chinook.
Patrick says, ‘You have a lovely voice, Robson.’
I start to tell him about my time in the music industry: ‘I had three number ones and kept Michael Jackson and Oasis off the top spot . . .’
Patrick gets up and leaves midway.
I turn to the camera: ‘He’ll be back – there’s no fuel in the van!’
*
I spy a little boy fishing on the bank. I wander over.
‘Please don’t tell me you caught something.’
The little boy replies, ‘Yes, I catch a trout.’
He takes me to his dad’s car to inspect it. I’m about to be upstaged by a twelve-year-old. He opens up a plastic carrier bag. It’s a decent size but thank God it’s not the size of the chinook we – I mean Patrick – lost. I take it out to inspect it.
‘That is a beautiful wild brown trout . . .’ The fish twitches and I drop it! I try to pick it up. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry. So sorry.’
It’s all going to hell in a handcart. I have never felt so harassed as an angler – trapped and held captive in Chile. But if I’m feeling the extreme pressure, Patrick looks one seriously worried man. As we prepare our lines he confides in me, ‘I have never felt so much pressure in my life; it’s like my whole life depends on catching the salmon. That cannot be right – I’m not enjoying this.’
But this is Patrick’s chance to redeem himself and he needs to show the world what an excellent angler and ghillie he truly is. We wade out and start casting. After five minutes, one of Patrick’s beautiful casts gets a fish. He knows how to play the lure better than me, and lets it drop much deeper. I think my retrieve is too quick but it’s sometimes hard to judge. Salmon will take at any depth and it’s your job as an angler to find the right level; Patrick instinctively knows in these waters. It’s important to take into consideration the weather, for example; with low pressure they stay down, while high pressure brings them up. When it’s sunny they take lures below, when it’s windy it keeps them down as well. If you can judge by sight, all the better – but this depends on the water clarity.
Patrick hands me the rod and, as I start to gently play the fish, it leaps. It’s a glorious platinum chinook. She’s not as big as the last one but her bright silver scales mean she has just come up from the sea. After a few days she will start to take on the colours of the terrain. As I begin to reel her in she turns towards the bank – I am the wrong side of her! I try to bring her round but at the moment she’s in charge. She swims towards me.
‘I am too close!’
The closer the angler is to the fish, the more likely the line will go slack and we’ll lose her.
‘Walk back slowly,’ says Patrick. ‘Slowly.’
I keep walking backwards. I’m on the bank, still pacing back. I fall down a rabbit hole and into the gorse. I get up, still bringing the line towards the bank.
‘You did it! You’re there. Perfecto!’ Patrick lands the fish and we both go wild. I start to breathe; I didn’t realise I had been holding my breath.
‘You did it!’ Patrick is jumping for joy and I am so happy. We hug.
‘I have never been so scared in my life. Oh, my goodness!’
It’s a thirty-pound king salmon, so healthy, so vibrant; it’s a credit to the species, Oncorhynchus tshawytscha. And that’s easy for me to say! She has come up to spawn and who am I to stop her? Well, I kind of did, temporarily. I release her into the icy waters saying, ‘Go forth and create other king salmon of good health and size.’
I run around the hotel grounds naked to celebrate my victory. I feel liberated. They can keep me here against my will but my spirit will not be broken. During my victory lap, Alistair gets a call.
‘Put your clothes on, Robson, we need to get across the border NOW! The British Embassy has negotiated us a two-hour window.’
The van is still packed up and we leap in, me dressed in full fishing gear, unable to locate my clothes at the bottom of the baggage mountain. We bid a fond farewell to Patrick and Torres del Paine. The British Embassy has played a blinder and we are waved on through the barricades. It is only thanks to the negotiations and tireless efforts of the British diplomats and Helen Nightingale that we got through, as the strike continues for many more days.
We cross the border into Argentina. Just like the salmon, we are free once more.
Chapter Twelve
ASCENSION ISLAND
Shark Back Mountain
October 2010, At the Ends of the Earth, Series 4
It’s 2 a.m., I’m in a cab on my way to RAF Brize Norton, Oxfordshire. As we enter the military compound I see floodlit razor wire and men with attack dogs. My stomach lurches. I’m definitely outside my comfort zone.
After rigorous security checks by military personnel, including an iris scan, fingerprints and tabs in my passport, I enter the strange airport lounge. Three hundred servicemen are asleep on chairs, trying to get some last-minute shut-eye before journeying to far-flung places such as the Falklands Islands, Iraq, Afghanistan and Ascension Island, which is where I’m heading. The passport-control man looks at me steadily; he wants to know why I’m going to Ascension.
‘I’m off to fish there,’ I reply.
His face breaks into a smile: ‘You’ll enjoy yourself. On its day it’s the greatest fishing destination in the world.’
Billed as the Jurassic Park of fishing, Ascension Island is a tiny dot seven miles wide and nine miles long in the middle of the vast Atlantic Ocean, about halfway between West Africa and South America, and because of the island’s remote location I’m told it’s home to some of the best game fish in the world, as well as many unique and strange species. The only way to get there is to catch a lift with the armed forces, who fly there once a week.
As I creep past the sleeping soldiers I’m keenly aware I’m out-numbered by people who get shot at or shoot at others for a living; they have been in some extreme situations in the real sense, not like Ross Kemp or me with a back-up team and a nice hotel to sleep in. These are the men in the arena who live life on the edge and have seen some fr
ightening things, and they are paid a pittance to risk their necks. As my dad used to say, I just ponce around wearing make-up for a living.
Suddenly a soldier, who’s spark out across a row of chairs, sits bolt upright and does a quadruple take: ‘Fuck me, it’s Tucker!’ I automatically put my hands up in surrender. ‘Is this heaven?’
‘No, welcome to hell, my friend.’
The incident wakes up many of the lads; just what I didn’t want to happen. Spot the odd one out. I can tell what they’re all thinking: ‘Here’s a reet pansy who thinks he’s a hard man.’
Come on, Robson, man the fuck up. You’re a well-respected actor, singer and presenter – a pillar of the community.
Pillock of the community, more like.
I hate my internal monologue. Of course, I have nothing to worry about: all the guys and girls are brilliant and a lot of them turn out to be fans of Extreme Fishing – well, they’re only human.
*
Things are getting weird. It’s time to depart but not by military plane, as I’d assumed – no, by Air Seychelles. As I board the aircraft I discover it really is a completely normal plane with seats, overhead lockers and no leg room. Unthinkingly I ask the air hostess where business class is located and all the soldiers look at me like I’ve just burnt down their houses and peed on their children. I’m escorted to the front of the plane by the base commander and offered the best seat in the house – next to the pilot. I’m living the dream. Take-off is my favourite part. It’s exciting, especially when you’re near all the knobs. If I were eight I’d now be swinging my legs in my chair, humming in contentment.
I’m looking forward to the adventure ahead. The first time I ever heard of Ascension Island was during the Falklands War, when Britain used it as a military base to fight the Argentinians. I don’t think many people knew it even existed until then. Well, apart from the Portuguese, who discovered it on Ascension Day back in 1501. They owned it until 1815, when the Brits stole it off them, and Ascension has remained a British territory ever since. Today the island is still used by the RAF and US Air Force as a strategic outpost and communications base.
As we land I swallow hard: the runway is only a mile long and is cut into a mountain that we’re approaching very fast. World War II pilots named the airfield Wideawake because they had to be wide awake to find Ascension in the first place, and then seriously alert to land there safely. There’s no second chance. Mercifully our pilot’s a pro and I’m right behind him if he needs me. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon by the time we land. It’s been a thirteen-hour flight but there’s no time difference from the UK, so at least I won’t be hit between the eyes with jet lag. As we disembark, the base commander asks if I would like to sing for the people of Ascension. I pretend not to hear him.
My first thought as I step off the plane is Shit, I’m tired. My second is I’m not fucking singing. I’m scooped up by the welcoming committee, who think the Beatles have finally arrived, but instead it’s some dog-tired Geordie they’ve never heard of. I follow them into the airport, if you can call it that – it’s more a shed. The whole population of the island is out to greet me – all seven of them. Although the island has no indigenous population, it is home to 900 residents, who are a mixture of UK and US military personnel and St Helenians, known locally as the Saints. As I make my way through the ‘crowd’, I am honoured that the governor of the Falklands Islands and the garrison commander have come out to greet me.
On the way to the hotel, I survey the scene. Ascension is a cross between Thunderbird Island and Los Cristianos in Tenerife, albeit without drunken Brits doing ‘The Birdie Song’ or ‘Agadoo’ by that really annoying band. The strange volcanic landscape is littered with cutting-edge Star Wars technology: giant golf balls protrude like cysts out of mountain tops and spider webs of wires form listening devices to communicate with anything from space stations to nuclear submarines. NASA even tested their moon buggy here – I can see why: I think I’ve landed on a different planet.
I loved Thunderbirds as a kid. Those were the days before political correctness when puppets could drink and smoke as much as they goddamn liked. And they smoked ALL the time. Lady Penelope was a forty-a-day girl – she must have stunk like a bad kipper. Apparently when Thunderbirds was rebroadcast on the BBC ten years ago,Lady P was criticised for smoking, wearing furs and shagging in the back of her car without a seatbelt on. How times have changed.
I drop my luggage off at my accommodation, and I use the word ‘accommodation’ loosely. It’s a horrid pre-fab building that reminds me of a place called Killingworth in Newcastle, now condemned. There is nothing starry about the aptly named Obsidian Hotel. Bear Grylls would definitely complain, I think to myself – it would be too much like camping for him. Not that complaining would do him any good; it’s the only hotel on the island.
Spear Fishing
There are only two sports boats on Ascension; one is owned by a German called Olaf Grimkowski, the other by South African Colin Chester, who I’m spear-fishing with today. I’m going deeper than I’ve ever gone to get a fish. We head out in his boat, the Wide Awake II, to Boatswain Island, which is a bird sanctuary. It’s also a major fish attractor. There’s a funny smell in the air and I discover from Colin it’s bird guano – that’s bird poo to you and me. It smells bad up top but looks beautiful down below, as the water is gin-clear. According to Colin it’s the most spectacular spear-fishing on earth, and he should know as he’s a spear-fishing champion. I’ll be starting with fish such as black trevally or black jack.
I’m actually very nervous about diving down so deep – we’ll be going down a full fifty feet – and we have to prepare our bodies properly to be able to free dive in one breath. I start holding my breath for ten seconds, fifteen seconds and then twenty seconds. Then I repeat the exercise holding the spear gun. After an hour I manage thirty-three seconds, which doesn’t sound a lot but when you’re holding a spear gun, diving down and moving around you get through a lot of oxygen. If I were going down under any other circumstances I could hold my breath for two minutes.
We clean out our masks and get ready to dive down. I watch Colin, who makes it look effortless, but it’s deeper than I’ve ever dived before and with the adrenalin pumping it feels like your lungs could burst. The waters are choppy, which doesn’t make it any easier. I’m bricking it.
Colin explains what I should do when I spot my target: ‘Take a few deep breaths, go down and approach the fish. Your natural instinct will kick in. You point the spear where you want to shoot it and your finger will do the rest.’ Simples.
No sooner have I put my head under the water than I spot a black jack – my heart is thundering in my ears. I hesitate. I’m so glad Colin’s with me as he’s such a relaxing influence.
‘Take it easy, Robson, just dive down and fire,’ he says.
The spear gun is heavy and the recoil great. The trick is to aim at a fish ten metres away or nearer. I take three big breaths and follow Colin’s advice. He’s right: my hunting instincts kick in and I quickly pursue the grey pocket torpedo. A black jack’s turn of speed is phenomenal, so the secret is to get close and hover, like a kestrel over a vole. The knack is to let the fish come to you, and to my astonishment it glides towards me, then turns profile on and I fire. To my utter amazement it’s a direct hit.
Even though I train hard every day, running and resistance training to keep fit for this job, I can’t believe how truly exhausting this is. However, I feel very comfortable in Colin’s company. Psychologically he is a safety net and somehow any sense of fear melts away. The breathing definitely helps, too – when you breathe in and out properly or concentrate on your breathing for an extended time you achieve a Zen-like state. Omm . . .
Colin spots a fish – three breaths and he’s down. His lungs are champion-sized, he is a natural hunter and is totally in tune with the ocean environment and his prey. He brings a healthy-sized black jack to the surface. Colin is doing something he was born
to do. When I watch Rooney play football, I never worry what he’s going to do with the ball; I’m always excited. Many other players are scared and unsure in the arena whereas Rooney belongs there; he was born to play football. I feel the same about Colin and fishing. I really envy his inner contentment with who he is and what he is doing. Too many people leave this life with a bewildered look on their face, unfulfilled and having done something they hate for too long. Colin’s one of the lucky ones.
Colin’s down again. I watch through my goggles as he strikes a medium-sized blue fish. Suddenly, his catch attracts a Galapagos shark. It propels itself towards Colin and from where I’m positioned it looks as if the shark is trying to remove his hands.
I start yelling: ‘There’s a shark eating Colin, there’s a shark eating Colin!’
I splash around like a lunatic and, like the true coward that I am, hurl myself into the boat, leaving Colin for dead. I gingerly peer over the edge before Colin emerges without his blue fish but with both hands. Hooray! He thought it was wise to give that particular fish away.
After twenty minutes the sharks have vanished and I’m back in the water. I’m ready for my next fish and this time I’ve got something bigger in my sights – much bigger. One, two, three, I suck as much air into my lungs as possible and propel myself down after the fish like an ancient hunter. I shoot, I strike, I score. The speared fish bolts for the rocks, followed by dozens of hungry trigger fish after a meal. Colin dives deep to bring up my prize. I’m exhausted and gasping for air but I can barely believe what I’ve caught. It’s a dog snapper – named because of its extraordinary canine gnashers. These fish are ambush predators that lie in wait for their prey to glide by and BAM! Their iridescent blood-orange colouring is surprisingly perfect camouflage, as the colour red is taken out of the white light spectrum as it hits water, so they appear almost invisible to unsuspecting bait fish. Rather like Jean Reno in the movie Leon, dog snappers are silent assassins.