by Chris Bray
29 May—Build and install seat and handles for PAC no. 2, test both hulls for leaks;
30 May—Sand and paint both PACs (today cargo ship starts loading in Sydney);
31 May—Build hauling yoke for both PACs, load our supplies being sent by ship and build wooden crate for kayaks just wrap PACs in bubble-wrap;
1 June—Hire truck and drive PACs to shipping office before 10 am cut-off.
Clark tapped the grubby sheet of paper. ‘That’s what I like to see—confidence. I see your dad didn’t leave any time for “fix any leaks in hulls after testing”.’
He was right—this impossibly crammed schedule left absolutely no time for anything going wrong. Still, some hope was better than no hope, and we gulped the dregs of our third cup of coffee and reached for the pop-rivet gun.
While the hull of PAC #2 started to take shape on the 3D scaffolding of frames we’d constructed, we continued working on the details of PAC #1 we’d recently pulled off the frames: seats; watertight bulkheads; hatches; the wheel system; even fitting a stainless-steel wear strip along the bottom to help protect it from abrasion. My mum sewed together waterproof ‘skirts’ that sealed the cockpit opening when we sat inside, and also sewed sling holsters in which we’d suspend each shotgun in a convenient ‘gun-hatch’ behind our seat. The theory was that even when kayaking, we could reach back and rip open this hatch that led into the cavernous aft section of the PAC, right where the shotgun would be hanging, ready to be slid out at a moment’s notice. James Bond, eat your heart out.
The next day, although utterly exhausted physically and mentally, we were given reason to smile. W.L. Gore—makers of world-famous Gore-Tex and Windstopper outdoor fabrics—had agreed to sponsor us. We could not believe our luck. At $2000 a pop, we had not been looking forward to forking out for the Gore-Tex Immersion Technology Drysuits we needed for Arctic paddling, but capsizing in ice-strewn water could be fatal without them. ‘Consider the suits taken care of,’ Isabel, the company’s marketing manager had told us. ‘And we’ll organise a meeting with our boot-fitting expert in the city—he’ll find you the very best hiking boots available, no expense spared.’
Finally, all those months of living in denial—forcing ourselves to believe that this expedition really was inexplicably still going to happen somehow, and completely emptying both our life savings—were starting to pay off. Our list of sponsors began to grow, and we suddenly found ourselves at the helm of what was shaping up to be an almighty adventure. Of the 56 sponsorship proposals we sent out, unbelievably, over twenty of them agreed to back us. Among these, the Australian Geographic Society gave us a particularly valuable cheque, Air Canada agreed to cover our airfares, and Ocean Frontiers—the not-for-profit youth adventure organisation started by well-known Aussie adventurers Don and Margie McIntyre—became our naming sponsor. Thus the ‘Ocean Frontiers 1000 Hour Day Expedition’ was born.
It is our belief that expeditions of this scale and vision promote the spirit of adventure … We feel that such adventures are vital to the development of a strong national character.
Yours sincerely
Rory Scott
Managing Director, Australian Geographic
Having endorsements like this gave us enormous credibility and enabled us to attract more big names. Nir—the manager of the outdoor gear importer Aktiv8 that equipped Jasper and me for Tasmania—was as eager as ever to help this time around. In what must have looked like a well-orchestrated robbery in broad daylight, I walked around the whole store, while Nir followed closely behind dragging a huge cardboard box. Anything I pointed at on the shelf was thrown into the overflowing box—over twenty Ortlieb drybags of various colours, shapes and sizes, Exped sleeping mats, two more Karrimor backpacks, and even their best tent—an Exped Orion Extreme. ‘And, Chris, the sleeping bags and camera bags will come in soon … I’ll send them,’ Nir assured me. As bewildered customers looked on, I thanked him and proceeded to waltz out the door with the box, without paying.
We had a lot to celebrate as far as sponsorship was concerned, and we still had another month to fish for more, but right now—as my dad bluntly reminded us just as we started to congratulate ourselves—we only had one week left to get the PACs finished, and at the current rate, ‘It’s just not going to happen, Christopher!’ Each evening revealed we’d only achieved half the day’s scheduled work, and were forced to divide the remaining tasks between the dwindling number of days left. It was a nightmare. When I found I could count on one hand the days remaining, a sickening fear squeezed us all into overdrive. Suffice to say that the three of us fitted several weeks’ hard work into the space of a few days.
Forty-eight hours before the cargo ship was due to depart, we heaved both alarmingly heavy PACs next door, placing them beside our neighbour’s swimming pool. ‘Shall we see if they float?’ It was a critical moment. We gingerly lowered one in, and let it go. Miraculously, it didn’t spin upside down and plunge straight to the bottom. Actually, it didn’t even list to one side. I gave it a dubious shove from behind, and that familiar sheepish grin—the expression that comes from realising we’d just somehow pulled off yet another miracle—spread across my face as the PAC slid effortlessly through the water to the other side, just like a real kayak. I hopped in, and to my delight the craft was incredibly stable—the car tyres on either side acted like outriggers! A wave of relief and pride flooded over us.
Then I noticed the leaks. There was a pool of water forming in the bow, and it was getting bigger. There was also water collecting in the stern.
I sat inside each PAC in turn, while Clark and Dad proceeded to press down hard at each end, forcing any leaks to reveal themselves in a jet of incoming water. ‘There it is!’ Clark’s finger pointed accusingly to where water was spilling in around a faulty pop-rivet.
‘And over there,’ Dad added. ‘And … and … there’s one back here, too.’
My mind reeled. This was bad. In fact, for a second there, I couldn’t even think of anything mildly reassuring to say in our traditional ‘she’ll be right’ style. Wait—yes, I could. ‘Well, we haven’t painted them yet, that’ll fill in any little holes …’
‘Yes, that’s true.’ We all agreed.
We heaved them back into the garage and smeared a little extra sealant around. There wasn’t even time to re-test them, or, far more worryingly, to see if they floated at all when loaded with the anticipated 170 kilograms of food and equipment—we’d just have to hope for the best.
That evening I uploaded a few images onto our expedition webpage
There was now only one minor detail left—building the hauling system—and we had a good half afternoon left to do it. We made the hauling fork out of aluminium angle, attached it to the bow, and ceremoniously rolled the first completed PAC out of the garage. Our neighbours hurried over to squint blearily at the result of all the late-night noise. With the pressure of an assembled audience, we prepared ourselves for the first ever attempt at PAC hauling. Their youngest son Tom—four years old—volunteered to mimic the 170 kilograms we’d load into each PAC, and leapt into the cockpit seat. I shouldered my harness, and took a few tentative steps. Nothing fell apart—definitely a good sign. I strode the full length of the driveway. Tom was loving it, and his dad made some amusing comment about Clark and me having chariot races out on the island. I wasn’t laughing, though—I was too busy trying to catch my breath, and also staring, hypnotised, at the way the hauling fork ben
t and flexed as I leant forward. It actually looked like it was about to break. Oh, well, the Arctic wilderness would undoubtedly be flatter and smoother than our paved driveway. Wouldn’t it?
Celebrations were put on hold as we spent that final evening in the garage completely rebuilding the hauling arm. To my horror, Dad dug out an excessively thick, heavy square section of metal tube from under the house. ‘We don’t have anything else. This’ll just have to do,’ he said, as I stood there gaping in dismay. ‘All the hardware shops are shut.’ He looked me square in the eyes. ‘You have run out of time, Christopher.’
Several hours later we bolted on a hauling arm that looked like it was designed to restrain a bullock, and declared the PACs—at long last—complete. Through drooping, twitching eyelids, we shoved them full of all the gear we didn’t want to have to bring with us on the plane in a month’s time, such as tools and buoyancy vests, and then in a scene reminiscent of Shelob’s lair in The Lord of the Rings, we suspended each PAC from the garage roof, and wound each in 50 metres of bubble-wrap. ‘To: Cambridge Bay, Nunavut, Canada—Ocean Frontiers 1000 Hour Day Expedition.’ I patted the sticker down, and went to bed.
About 30 minutes later it was morning, and we trucked our two mummified PACs to the shipping handlers and watched wide-eyed as a forklift scuttled hurriedly over, levelling its prongs only at the last second so they slid underneath our PACs rather than plunging right through their sides. ‘Oh, wouldn’t that have sucked …’ Clark whispered, grinning.
There was champagne that night, and for the first time in recent memory I allowed myself a decent sleep-in the next morning. The previous month had been so incredibly harrowing, but not only had we learned innumerable metalworking skills, we’d shown that Clark and I got on very well together, even under times of immense stress. We’d need this teamwork to survive out in the Arctic—countless expeditions have set out with teams made up of childhood best friends, only to come back with those rock-solid friendships in tatters. Considering Clark and I didn’t even know each other before deciding to embark on this trip, discovering we seemed to get along okay was very reassuring.
THE COUNTDOWN
Four weeks. That was all the time we had left, now that the PACs were on the ship, to get this expedition together. There was still an enormous amount of work to be done—building those kayaks was only supposed to be a side task—‘a few weekends’ work in the garage’. We could see that we weren’t going to get everything ticked off, so ‘prioritising’ was the word that first weekend, and a few things quickly filtered to the top of the list.
It was to be a very high-tech expedition—loaded with state-of-the-art High Definition video cameras (virtually unheard of in early 2005), a handheld chartplotter GPS, two satellite phones, digital SLR camera, even a laptop. We’d need a small power station to keep them all charged—or an incredibly long extension cord. We’d already decided solar panels were the obvious solution—the low temperatures and 24-hour sunlight suited them perfectly. The problem with traditional solar panels, of course, is that they are incredibly delicate, encased under a huge sheet of glass. Funded by the University of New South Wales’ school of photovoltaics, we opted to buy a revolutionary technology—panels that could literally be rolled up. To my alarm, however, by the time I tried to order the four 32-watt panels that I’d seen advertised earlier, the US military had taken over the company and purchased all stocks worldwide. Miraculously, a chain of frantic phone calls revealed four ‘cosmetically damaged’ but otherwise perfectly functional panels hiding in reserve in Australia, under the guard of a sympathetic importer.
Luck, we started to realise, was increasingly massing on our side. The harder we tried to overcome insurmountable odds, the more people seemed to come out of the woodwork to help us. This is a phenomenon eloquently summarised by Paulo Coelho in his book The Alchemist: ‘When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you achieve it.’ This—as it turned out—was one of the biggest life lessons we were to learn over the coming years.
Things were also starting to look up in the documentary film department. At the rather fancy annual dinner for the Australian division of the Explorers Club, good fortune seated me next to Sue—an interesting woman who seemed to have unlimited energy. Over a traditional glass of port—handed around on a silver platter, no less—she explained that she worked for one of Australia’s largest independent production houses. ‘We produce a lot of documentaries for Discovery Channel,’ she said, passing me her card. ‘I think they’d be very interested in your adventure.’
My thoughts were interrupted as a man stood in front of me and extended his hand. ‘I’m Dick Smith, very pleased to meet you, Chris.’ The evening just got better and better—although I still felt like an impostor being part of this club, I was making invaluable contacts.
With less than a week left to go, Clark and I did a lightning trip into the city to buy some last-minute equipment. I pinned my phone on my shoulder and answered it as I slid my credit card across the counter in exchange for some polycarbonate unbreakable camping cutlery.
It was Sue. ‘I’ve just got off the phone with Discovery Channel in Washington, and they are keen for us to get a contract with you guys. Have you worked out an asking price?’ she asked. We had. I crossed my fingers, and told her. Her silence either meant I was asking far too much, or far too little. ‘I’m sorry, Chris, that’s just not going to happen. I was imagining more like a third of that!’
A third?! I was devastated, but decided to hold firm. ‘Well, this is a pretty expensive expedition, and that’s the figure we’ve come up with …’ Sue indicated she’d be too embarrassed to even ask Discovery for that much, and the conversation came to an awkward end.
The next day she called me back. ‘All right, Discovery agreed to it,’ she said. We were ecstatic. ‘We’ll need to spend a day doing some pre-expedition filming with you boys, though,’ she added.
And so, with our ‘Very High’ priority To-Do list still spanning several pages, Clark and I found ourselves—with only four days left—standing perfectly motionless on my local beach, while a five-man camera crew, complete with director and assistant, started off the day with several takes of what they called the ‘hero’ shot—us staring blankly out to sea, trying to pretend we weren’t going blind looking directly into the sun. The next humiliation consisted of us having to lie side by side in some old sleeping bags, directly on the public beach. Why? I can’t imagine. ‘You’re bringing 16 kilos of chocolate?! This is great, we’ll film a close-up of you guys stuffing yourself with chocolate as fast as you can.’ Unfortunately they weren’t joking. After suffering that embarrassment we were filmed dragging our truck tyre along the beach again and again while they got it just right.
‘What else do you do to keep fit?’ the director asked. Between gasps, Clark mentioned that indoor rock-climbing was a hobby. ‘Oh, hey, I know what’d be awesome …’ We shot a nervous glance at each other. ‘We’ll film you rock-climbing, towing the truck tyre up the wall behind you! Do you do that? Is that possible?’ We explained that no, it was not. And so the day progressed.
More than a little concerned at exactly what kind of documentary they had planned for us, we were also starting to really panic about all the things we still had to do in the next three days. We didn’t even have our sleeping bags yet—we were still waiting for our two Exped waterproof goose-down ones to be imported from Switzerland! Also, the second of our two $1000 submersible Ortlieb camera bags was still in Germany! Shit! Shit! And here we were, being told, ‘Can you just lift that bag up and put it down again? The lighting wasn’t quite right on that one …’
Just when we thought our stress levels couldn’t escalate any higher, Sky News called and asked us to do a live TV interview at their Sydney studio—that very afternoon. ‘Live TV interview!?’ Clark repeated the three words we’d hoped we’d never hear.
‘Great, we’ll drive you there and film the whole thing!’ The limitless energy of the fil
m crew was starting to wear us down, but we were grateful for the lift, and the opportunity to escape any more of their filming sequences.
Half an hour later Clark and I tumbled into the newsroom. ‘The newsreader will be interviewing you from in there,’ the usher pointed, ‘but,’ he swung his arm in the opposite direction, ‘you’ll be sitting over here.’ He pointed to a lone desk in the centre of the office, absolutely bristling with cameras, microphones and monitors. This torture device only had one chair so I accepted my fate as ‘expedition leader’ and sat down. In case I wasn’t already feeling violated enough by our film crew’s sticky-taped wireless mic pulling out my chest hair under my shirt, another was now slid inside my collar, and a tiny earpiece wedged in my ear.
‘Can you hear me?’ A voice boomed from inside my head. Without the faintest idea who was speaking to me, or from where, I simply said ‘Yes’ to the wall in front of me. ‘Good. Now I’ll just get you to clap your hands together for me.’ Like a well-behaved puppet, I obeyed. ‘Okay, audio’s levelled. You’ll be on in a few seconds.’
Down in Hobart, our main sponsors Don and Margie McIntyre raced into their nearest pub to watch on the big screen. ‘ … that was our correspondent, speaking there from Baghdad. In news closer to home, two incredible young Australian men are about to head off on an epic world-first expedition to the Arctic. I’m now joined by Chris Bray, one of the explorers, in our Sydney studio—Chris, thank you for coming in …’ In an excited phone call that night, Don congratulated me, saying that in the pub, people had stopped talking, and some even put down their beers to watch! This, apparently, was quite something.
Utterly drained from the day’s shenanigans, Clark and I slept like dead men.
There were now two days to go. ‘We should have done this weeks ago,’ I shook my head forlornly as I called the fifth sticker manufacturer listed online. ‘Yes, hello. Can you print 60 different company logo stickers, in colour, on clear backing, up to one metre long, that will stick to a … a … painted surface?’