by Jason Fox
He nudged me awake. ‘Mate, we’re leaving – now.’
What the fuck?
‘There’s a surge coming in – the island’s flooding. If we don’t get a move on, we’re going to get swept away.’
I looked outside. Sean was right; the scene was pretty ugly. The water had crept closer and closer towards us, like a fast-moving tide on a beach. Moving frantically, we collapsed the camp, and as we sat in our boats, shivering, waiting for the swell to draw us back into the chaos, it was hard not to feel despondent. I was freezing and my kit was soaked through; the tent was in ribbons and our plans had been torn to shreds. But there was no point wallowing in what might have been or how bad our predicament had become. Positive action was the only way to stay alive.
STEP #4
SELF-AWARENESS IN A FLOOD
Special Forces training had taught me that in situations of this kind, my survival hinged on flexibility. Sean and I were paddling back into the conditions we’d been trying so desperately to avoid a few hours earlier, but the chances of escape now seemed even slimmer. We were still being battered by high winds; choppy swells smashed into the boats, over and over again. Our position was a small dot in a very big expanse of water, and the Yukon was around four miles wide at that point. I looked down at our digital map.
‘Mate, the river eventually narrows to about a kilometre in width, but it’s about two kilometres’ worth of paddling to get there.’
Sean nodded. ‘Let’s fucking go for it. We’ve got to do something. We can’t hang here – we’ll die.’
I looked out at the water. Huge waves loomed ahead. The wind whipped across the water. I was scared.
‘Right, are we doing this?’ said Sean.
I nodded. Yeah.
‘OK. It’s going to be twenty minutes of hard graft,’ he said. ‘But we’ve got to go for it.’
Thanks to self-awareness, I knew there would be fear; the situation demanded it, really, but I was at least ready for any moments where my emotions might overwhelm me. Controlling any anxieties at that stage was vital. If I became emotionally spun out at any point, it might prevent me from functioning effectively, and if that was for only a split second it could have been the difference between making it to Emmonak for an elk burger and a bottle of whisky or a grim death at the bottom of the Yukon.
As we moved on, each wave threatened to flip us over. Being positioned only a few inches off the water in a kayak made the experience incredibly intimidating; there were times when I was absolutely petrified. Every rise and fall of the tide forced me to steady my craft, and there was also the reality of the water I was working in. It was heavy with silt. I’d heard rumours of people going into the Yukon and, because their clothing quickly filled with sediment, they were unable to break above the water’s surface. When I looked up at Sean again, he, too, was operating in his own little world, scrapping to stay alive.
‘This is serious,’ he shouted. ‘If one of us goes in, how’s the other one going to help? We’re each in a fucking kayak!’
I tried to stay calm. Concentrate on what you need to do, I thought, recalling the One Metre Square theory. Don’t go over. Do not fucking capsize. Remember everything you’ve learned over the last 1,500 miles …
I hadn’t been that close to death for quite some time. I was being flipped around in an emotional roller coaster, and a split second of doubt inevitably flickered across my mind. This is fucking horrendous. We could die here. Then I settled myself again, pulling my stresses into the One Metre Square around me. I focused only on the immediate seconds ahead. You won’t capsize. And if you don’t capsize, you won’t die. Concentrate on what needs to be done. Concentrate on not giving up. In other situations, I’d used that resilient mindset to push myself on, such as in the mix of a terrifying gun battle. Back then I’d thought, I need to switch on a little bit. The way I’m going to get out of here is to start shooting, do whatever I need to do … It had kept me alive in the past; it would keep me alive now.
‘Mate!’ I heard Sean shouting at me from across the water. He was gesticulating to a small inlet in the shoreline. It looked like a lagoon area where a group of fallen trees had been deposited by the fast-moving Yukon. On one side, violent waves slapped into the log pile, but a pond of still water had formed behind them.
‘We need to get into that,’ he yelled, changing course and charging for the riverbank.
I followed his tail until we’d reached what looked like a small, natural dam. We pulled our kayaks inside. It wasn’t an ideal situation. The area was surrounded by head-high vegetation and a pathway had been flattened down at the back, probably by animals using the space as a watering hole.
Bears.
STEP #5
BROTHERHOOD AT THE LOWEST EBB
We’d already been bumped once by a grizzly bear on the trip and it hadn’t been pleasant. While resting on a sandbank one day, drying our kit and eating some lunch, Sean had suddenly looked up.
‘I can see something moving over there,’ he said, pointing. ‘It’s either a moose or a bear. I’m not sure which.’
Sean moved closer to get eyes on the target. Seconds later he was running towards the boats, waving at me to do the same.
‘It’s a bloody grizzly! Get into the kayak!’
I sprinted to the shoreline, grabbing my sleeping bag and as much of our equipment as I could carry, while 800lb of fur, teeth and claws advanced on our position. The bear had sniffed our food and was now approaching at speed; Sean and I headed out into the middle of the Yukon, watching as the beast rummaged through what was left of our camp. Once we were certain it was done, we made a quick return, grabbing the last pieces of kit and paddling away.
I didn’t fancy a repeat experience at our new temporary base, but there was nowhere else to go. Wading into the waist-high water, we wedged our boats into the watering hole access point and set up camp on the bank. The tent was battered after several weeks in the wild. Meanwhile, the Yukon had soaked everything during the storm – our clothes, our sleeping bags, even our food. The inflatable mats we’d been sleeping on were fucked too. Our moment of weakness had arrived and we were both emotionally vulnerable, but our military training had readied us for events such as this one. The important thing was to acknowledge the reality of our situation. What the fuck have we got ourselves into? Then take stock of where we were and accept our very human response. This is fucking scary and not nice. To ignore those feelings, or to pretend that everything was OK, might have led to denial and then failure. Once we’d gathered our thoughts, it was time to push away any negative emotion.
I respected Sean. He’d been through plenty of grim situations in a kayak on all sorts of expeditions and was regarded as being highly experienced within the Royal Marines, where he’d learned the importance of resilience and the Commando Spirit. When life became sketchy, he understood how to stop himself from caving in. Meanwhile, both of us knew we could trust one another; just as I’d experienced in the military elite, there was an unwritten agreement that we were in this as a team, no matter how desperate our situation became. I could lean on Sean; Sean could lean on me. Despite the cold and the wet, not to mention the stress of having to make it to Emmonak before our flight home departed, I understood I was exactly where I’d wanted to be: operating outside of my comfort zone and working within a brotherhood.
I grabbed some peanut butter and bread and loaded up a couple of sandwiches, before figuring out the next move.
OK, what’s going on?
‘We’re good for time,’ said Sean. ‘It’s a squeeze, but we’ll be OK. The issue is this fucking storm raging around us …’
We decided to wait for a bit, eventually crawling into our sodden sleeping bags. Hoping the storm might die off overnight, we made plans to move quickly to Emmonak as soon as we could. As for our survival? Well, paddling in the dark wasn’t ideal, but at least it was something. And then I remembered.
‘Mate, wait there!’ I said, wading back out to my kaya
k in the icy-cold water. I searched through the back of the boat until I’d laid hands on a tube of Pringles – my break-in-case-of-emergency rations. The packaging was banged up a bit and the cardboard was soggy, but the crisps inside were fairly dry thanks to the lining. Sean’s eyes lit up as I flipped the top open and offered him a stack of salty treats.
‘Once you pop, mate …’
‘You can’t stop,’ laughed Sean.
Emotionally, we had turned the corner by acknowledging our feelings and finding humour in adversity. The response was like one of those power surges from a shoot-’em-up video game. Resting for the night in our sodden sleeping bags, the winds buffeting the tent, we drifted off to sleep to the music from one of our mobile phones. Every now and then I’d check on the weather, hoping for some small improvement, but the conditions were unrelenting.
Having dozed off again, I was woken by Sean. It was morning. He was shaking me.
‘Mate, we’re getting up.’
What? Why?
I propped myself up on an elbow and felt it: beneath me, the ground was moving, as if we were sleeping on a waterbed. The river had swept in around us. We were floating.
‘The bank’s flooded,’ said Sean. ‘We’ve got to pack up and get into the boats.’
Moments later, the pair of us were back in the water again, paddling away from our camp into the choppy currents of the Yukon. What a drama. The winds were still high and, even though it was fairly calm in our secluded lagoon, I could see the river was nightmarishly rough as I led us away.
‘How does it look out there?’ asked Sean as I turned the corner.
It was bad. I really didn’t want to move out, but our options were limited. Sean shook his head.
‘In my experience, those waves are still too big,’ he said. ‘I’m not happy at all.’
For a brief moment, I wondered whether we were all out of options. We were pretty helpless, and unsure of how long the storm was going to last. But there was one person I knew who might have a handle on what to do next. Dad. He lived on a boat in the Mediterranean, and had a pretty good understanding of storm tracking and global weather systems. I punched his number into my satellite phone and hoped for the best. Eventually, after one or two attempts, we were connected.
‘Dad, there’s a storm in the Emmonak area and we’re trapped,’ I said. ‘I need to know what’s going on.’
There was a pause. ‘Give me fifteen minutes to check,’ he said. ‘Call me back then.’
A quarter of an hour later we had a fuller picture of the situation we were facing. The storm was big – really big. But the good news was that we’d already seen out most of it.
‘The winds are going to die down a bit between two and three o’clock in the afternoon,’ said Dad. ‘They’ll still be strong, but by seven tonight you’ll be fine.’
Even though we were around half a day away from the finishing line, a little light had appeared at the end of the tunnel. And it turned out that we didn’t have to wait that long: having got through the morning, by one in the afternoon the storm was settling down enough for us to consider pushing off again. Sean and I perched on the edge of the river in our kayaks, staring at the churning water ahead. He wanted to know if I was ready for the upcoming test.
‘Fuck it,’ I said. ‘Let’s go for it. We’re only twelve kilometres from the finish.’
Sean nodded. The journey was set to be grim work, but both of us were ready. I was in charge of our GPS, and Sean had an idea to help us through the final stage.
‘Every time we clock off a kilometre, I want you to shout it out,’ he said.
Yeah! One hundred per cent.
We paddled out and powered into the storm. As every kilometre passed, I shouted out to Sean over the gale.
One kilometre!
Two kilometres!
I must have sounded like the Count from Sesame Street until, eventually, the fishing village of Emmonak came into sight. We were safe.
According to the Fun Scale – a quantifiable measurement of exciting activities – there are three types of ‘enjoyable’ events in life. Type One is the quick buzz: a piss-up with friends, a cracking night out, or the winning goal in an important football match. It tends to be a brief surge of dopamine that doesn’t really last that long and usually leaves a person wanting more of the same. Type Two is very different. It is an experience or challenge that feels utterly miserable, or disorientating in the moment – such as an ultramarathon or a long-distance rowing race – but once completed, the pain is slowly forgotten and a glow of achievement takes over. It often feels as though life has changed for the better as a result and before long, a desire to repeat the experience, or to go one further, kicks in. Type Three is the worst of the lot: a painful experience that is a constant threat to life and requires a rescue attempt at the end.
Travelling the Yukon River fell into the Type Two category.
As we finally dragged ourselves from the water, two local blokes approached us. They were sizing up our battered kayaks.
‘Are you selling those?’ asked one.
Too fucking right I am. I’m not taking this thing home.
I took the cash, but my sour mood didn’t last for long. Thanks to the unusual nature of Type-Two fun, I was soon revelling in every near-death moment on the Yukon, even before I’d made the long flight home. There were times when one of us could have died, but I’d been able to manage my emotions, maintaining a resilient spirit until the end. I had fulfilled my purpose and thrived in a newfound sense of brotherhood with Sean. I had felt fear, but I’d survived, learned, and then grown. The experience had made me more resilient than ever before.
The demons had been silenced yet again.
OPERATIONAL DEBRIEF
❱❱ To remain emotionally strong, engage with projects that are mentally and physically challenging. The Yukon expedition gave me purpose: there was the opportunity to raise money for charity while working in an intimidating environment alongside a good mate.
❱❱ Break down intimidating events into manageable targets rather than imagining the whole thing. During the gruelling trek to the water, I visualized the endgame: a scene of Sean and me sitting in our kayaks on Lake Bennett, the still water gently swelling around us. In the closing stage of the river journey, we mentally checked off every kilometre as an accomplishment.
❱❱ Use self-awareness to ready yourself for fear. I was in a situation where unease was understandable – there was no point denying it. Rather than crumbling, I used the fear to concentrate, negotiating the incoming waves one by one.
❱❱ Sometimes the only way to survive is to acknowledge the severity of the situation and work towards finding a solution through positive action. At no point did Sean or I grumble about the shit we were stuck in – not for too long, anyway. We tried to make jokes while remaining proactive.
❱❱ Prepare for any emotional lows with a break-in-case-of-emergency reward. If we’re working abroad for a long time, we should pack some home comforts for any heavy moments. In the middle of a gruelling project, factor in a night off for relaxing. In the midst of an emotional life-event, take an hour or so to walk outside listening to music or a podcast.
SITUATIONAL AWARENESS
BEWARE THE FALSE ENDING
In war, missions and gunfights rarely run on the clock. Battles don’t end at sundown only to start up again once it gets light; people don’t check out of contact situations for a rest. I’ve been in scraps that have lasted for over thirty-six hours, and I was physically and emotionally rinsed by the end of each one. Every battle has its own rhythm and tempo, too. Sometimes the shooting can be relentless, the bullets landing from all angles in a seemingly never-ending barrage. At other times, the contact becomes sporadic – an enemy target might fire off a few bursts, only to move positions and then start up again when it’s least expected. The trick was to stay on high-alert at all times.
During the Yukon expedition, there were moments when I’d believed a stor
m was blowing itself out, only for the winds to flare up again minutes later. Or it might have felt as though our final destination for the day was in sight, when it was actually around another large bend in the river. Without mental strength, those disappointments can feel demoralizing.
Luckily, experience of these situations was instilled in me during my military service. During courses, instructors would run drills for hours on end and then create a situation where it seemed as if our work was winding down for the day – but this turned out to be a trick. As the lads settled down and mentally prepared for a rest and a wet, the action suddenly started up again, out of nowhere. The effect was unsettling, but also informative. It taught me that when the mind switched off, the body was at its most vulnerable. I had to be constantly alert and ready for anything.
False endings appear in life all the time. We think our workload on a project has come to an end, only for an issue or glitch to arise unexpectedly, putting us back a few days, or even weeks. An illness or injury might take longer to recover from than the original diagnosis had suggested. Having become emotionally blown off-course by a life-event, we might need more time than usual to power up to full strength, or motivate ourselves. The only way to handle these false endings is to ready ourselves for them even when it might seem unnecessary. When assessing the finishing line, we should adjust our resources for a worst-case scenario or, at the very least, a slight problem at the end. For example:
Plan your end-of-deadline celebration a couple of days after the closing date, just in case.
Regularly run, swim, climb or cycle a distance longer than the race you’ll be competing in. As a result, you’ll have much more left in the emotional tank in the closing stages.