Losing My Virginity

by Richard Branson

  ‘At this rate of fall we’ve got seven minutes,’ I said.

  ‘OK,’ Per said. ‘Open the hatch. Depressurise.’

  We opened the trap door at 12,000 feet, dropping to 11,000 feet, and with a breathtaking rush of freezing air the capsule depressurised. Alex and I started throwing everything overboard: food, water, oil cans, anything that wasn’t built into the capsule. Everything. Even a wodge of dollars. For five minutes, this stalled our fall. There was no question of continuing. We just had to save our lives.

  ‘It’s not enough,’ I said, seeing the altimeter drop to 9,000 feet. ‘We’re still falling.’

  ‘OK, I’m going out on the roof,’ Alex said. ‘The fuel tanks have got to go.’

  Since Alex practically built the capsule, he knew exactly how to undo the locks. In the panic I realised that, if Rory had been on board instead, we’d have been stuck. We would have had no choice but to parachute. Right now we’d be tumbling out into the night over the Atlas Mountains. The burners roared overhead, casting a fierce orange light over us.

  ‘Have you parachuted before?’ I shouted at Alex.

  ‘Never,’ he said.

  ‘That’s your ripcord,’ I said, pushing his hand to it.

  ‘It’s 7,000 feet and falling,’ Per called out. ‘6,600 feet now.’

  Alex climbed through the hatch, on to the top of the capsule. It was difficult to feel how fast we were dropping. My ears had now blocked. If the locks were frozen and Alex wasn’t able to free the fuel cans, we’d have to jump. We had only a few minutes left. I looked up at the hatch and rehearsed what we would have to do: one hand to the rim, step out, and jump into the darkness. My hand instinctively felt for my parachute. I checked to see that Per was wearing his. Per was watching the altimeter. The numbers were falling fast.

  We had only 6,000 feet to play with and it was dark – no, 5,500 feet. If Alex was up there for another minute, we’d have 3,500 feet. I stood with my head through the hatch, paying out the strap and watching Alex as he worked his way round the top of the capsule. It was pitch-dark below us and freezing cold. We couldn’t see the ground. The phone and fax were ringing incessantly. Ground control must have been wondering what the hell we were doing.

  ‘One’s off,’ Alex shouted through the hatch.

  ‘3,700 feet,’ Per said.

  ‘Another one,’ Alex said.

  ‘3,400 feet.’

  ‘Another one.’

  ‘2,900 feet, 2,400.’

  It was too late to bale out. By the time we’d jumped, we’d be smashing into the mountains rushing up to meet us.

  ‘Get back in,’ Per yelled. ‘Now.’

  Alex fell back through the hatch.

  We braced ourselves. Per threw the lever to disconnect a fuel tank. If this bolt failed, we’d be dead in about sixty seconds. The tank dropped away and the balloon jerked to an abrupt halt. It felt like an elevator hitting the ground. We were flattened into our seats, my head crammed down into my shoulders. Then the balloon began to rise. We watched the altimeter: 2,600, 2,700, 2,800 feet. We were safe. In ten minutes we were up past 3,000 feet and the balloon was heading back into the night sky.

  I knelt on the floor beside Alex and hugged him.

  ‘Thank God you’re with us,’ I said. ‘We’d be dead without you.’

  They say that a dying man reviews his life in the final seconds before his death. In my case this was not true. As we hurtled down towards becoming a fireball on the Atlas Mountains and I thought that we were going to die, all I could think of was that, if I escaped with my life, I would never do this again. As we rose up towards safety, Alex told us a story of a rich man who set out to swim the Channel: he went down to the beach, set up his deck chair and a table laid with cucumber sandwiches and strawberries, and then announced that his man would now swim the Channel for him. At that moment, it didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

  Throughout that first night, we fought to keep control of the balloon. At one point it started a continuous ascent, rising for no apparent reason. We finally realised that one of the remaining fuel tanks had sprung a leak: we had been unwittingly jettisoning fuel. As dawn approached, we made preparations to land. Below was the Algerian desert, an inhospitable place at the best of times, more so in a country in the middle of a civil war.

  The desert was not the yellow sandy sweep of soft dunes which you expect from watching Lawrence of Arabia. The bare earth was red and rocky, as barren as the surface of Mars, the rocks standing upright like vast termites’ nests. Alex and I sat up on the roof of the capsule, marvelling at the dawn as it broke over the desert. We were aware this was a day that we might not have survived to see. The rising sun and the growing warmth of the day seemed infinitely precious. Watching the balloon’s shadow slip across the desert floor, it was hard to believe it was the same contraption that had plummeted towards the Atlas Mountains in the middle of the night.

  The still-attached fuel tanks were blocking Per’s view, so Alex talked him in to land. As we neared the ground Alex shouted out:

  ‘Power line ahead!’

  Per shouted back that we were in the middle of the Sahara and there couldn’t possibly be a power line. ‘You must be seeing a mirage,’ he bawled.

  Alex insisted that he come up and see for himself: we had managed to find the only power line in the Sahara.

  Despite the vast barren desert all around us, within minutes of our landing there were signs of life. A group of Berber tribesmen materialised from the rocks. At first they kept their distance. We were about to offer them some water and the few remaining supplies, when we heard the clattering roar of gunship helicopters. They must have tracked us on their radar. As quickly as they had appeared, the Berber vanished. Two helicopters landed close by, throwing up clouds of dust, and soon we were surrounded by impassive soldiers holding machine guns, apparently unsure where to point them.

  ‘Allah,’ I said, encouragingly.

  For a moment they stood still, but their curiosity got the better of them and they came forward. We showed their officer around the capsule, and he marvelled at the remaining fuel tanks.

  As we stood outside the capsule, I wondered what these Algerian soldiers thought of it. I looked back, and saw it for a moment through their eyes. The remaining fuel tanks were painted like vast cans of Virgin Cola and Virgin Energy in bright red and yellow. Among the many slogans on the side of the capsule were ones for Virgin Atlantic, Virgin Direct (now Virgin Money), Virgin Territory and Virgin Cola. It was probably lucky for us that the devoutly Muslim soldiers could not understand the writing round the top of the Virgin Energy can: DESPITE WHAT YOU MAY HAVE HEARD THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO EVIDENCE THAT VIRGIN ENERGY IS AN APHRODISIAC.

  * * *

  As I looked at the capsule standing in the red sand, and relived the harrowing drop towards the Atlas Mountains, I renewed my vow that I would never attempt this again. In perfect contradiction to this, at the back of my mind I also knew that, as soon as I was home and had talked to the other balloonists who were trying to fly round the world, I would agree to have one last go. It’s an irresistible challenge and it’s now buried too deeply inside for me to give up.

  The two questions I am most often asked are, Why do you risk your neck ballooning? and, Where is the Virgin Group going? In some ways the sight of the ballooning capsule standing in the middle of the Algerian desert, with its cluster of Virgin names plastered over it, summed up these prime questions.

  I knew that I would attempt another balloon flight because it’s one of the few great challenges left. As soon as I’ve banished the terrors of each actual flight, I once again feel confident that we can learn from our mistakes and achieve the next one safely.

  The wider question of where the Virgin Group will end up is impossible to answer. Rather than be too academic about it all, which is not the way I think, I have written this book to demonstrate how we made Virgin what it is today. If you read carefully between the lines you will, I hope, understand what our
vision for the Virgin Group is, and you will see where I am going. Some people say that my vision for Virgin breaks all the rules and is too wildly kaleidoscopic; others say that Virgin has become one of the leading brand names of the century; others analyse it down to the last degree and then write academic papers on it. As for me, I just pick up the phone and get on with it. Both the series of balloon flights and the numerous Virgin companies I have set up form a seamless series of challenges which I can date from my childhood.

  When I was searching for titles, David Tait, who runs the American side of Virgin Atlantic, suggested that I call it Virgin: The Art of Business Strategy and Competitive Analysis.

  ‘Not bad,’ I told him, ‘but I’m not sure it’s catchy enough.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘the subtitle would be Oh Screw It, Let’s Do It.’

  1 ‘A family that would have killed for each other.’

  1950–1963

  MY CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING of a blur to me now, but there are several episodes that stand out. I do remember that my parents continually set us challenges. My mother was determined to make us independent. When I was four years old, she stopped the car a few miles from our house and made me find my own way home across the fields. I got hopelessly lost. My youngest sister Vanessa’s earliest memory is being woken up in the dark one January morning because Mum had decided I should cycle to Bournemouth that day. Mum packed some sandwiches and an apple and told me to find some water along the way.

  Bournemouth was fifty miles away from our home in Shamley Green, Surrey. I was under twelve, but Mum thought that it would teach me the importance of stamina and a sense of direction. I remember setting off in the dark, and I have a vague recollection of staying the night with a relative. I have no idea how I found their house, or how I got back to Shamley Green the next day, but I do remember finally walking into the kitchen like a conquering hero, feeling tremendously proud of my marathon bike ride and expecting a huge welcome.

  ‘Well done, Ricky,’ Mum greeted me in the kitchen, where she was chopping onions. ‘Was that fun? Now, could you run along to the vicar’s? He’s got some logs he wants chopping and I told him that you’d be back any minute.’

  Our challenges tended to be physical rather than academic, and soon we were setting them for ourselves. I have an early memory of learning how to swim. I was either four or five, and we had been on holiday in Devon with Dad’s sisters, Auntie Joyce and Aunt Wendy, and Wendy’s husband, Uncle Joe. I was particularly fond of Auntie Joyce, and at the beginning of the holiday she had bet me ten shillings that I couldn’t learn to swim by the end of the fortnight. I spent hours in the sea trying to swim against the freezing-cold waves, but by the last day I still couldn’t do it. I just splashed along with one foot hopping on the bottom. I’d lunge forward and crash beneath the waves before spluttering up to the surface trying not to swallow the seawater.

  ‘Never mind, Ricky,’ Auntie Joyce said. ‘There’s always next year.’

  But I was determined not to wait that long. Auntie Joyce had made me a bet, and I doubted that she would remember it the next year. On our last day we got up early, packed the cars and set out on the twelve-hour journey home. The roads were narrow; the cars were slow; and it was a hot day. Everyone wanted to get home. As we drove along I saw a river.

  ‘Daddy, can you stop the car, please?’ I said.

  This river was my last chance: I was sure that I could swim and win Auntie Joyce’s ten shillings.

  ‘Please stop!’ I shouted.

  Dad looked in the rear-view mirror, slowed down and pulled up on the grass verge.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Aunt Wendy asked as we all piled out of the car.

  ‘Ricky’s seen the river down there,’ Mum said. ‘He wants to have a final go at swimming.’

  ‘Don’t we want to get on and get home?’ Aunt Wendy complained. ‘It’s such a long drive.’

  ‘Come on, Wendy. Let’s give the lad a chance,’ Auntie Joyce said. ‘After all, it’s my ten shillings.’

  I pulled off my clothes and ran down to the riverbank in my underpants. I didn’t dare stop in case anyone changed their mind. By the time I reached the water’s edge I was rather frightened. Out in the middle of the river, the water was flowing fast with a stream of bubbles dancing over the boulders. I found a part of the bank that had been trodden down by some cows, and waded out into the current. The mud squeezed up between my toes. I looked back. Uncle Joe and Aunt Wendy and Auntie Joyce, my parents and sister Lindi stood watching me, the ladies in floral dresses, the men in sports jackets and ties. Dad was lighting his pipe and looking utterly unconcerned; Mum was smiling her usual encouragement.

  I braced myself and jumped forward against the current, but I immediately felt myself sinking, my legs slicing uselessly through the water. The current pushed me around, tore at my underpants and dragged me downstream. I couldn’t breathe and I swallowed water. I tried to reach up to the surface, but had nothing to push against. I kicked and writhed around but it was no help.

  Then my foot found a stone and I pushed up hard. I came back above the surface and took a deep breath. The breath steadied me, and I relaxed. I had to win that ten shillings.

  I kicked slowly, spread my arms, and found myself swimming across the surface. I was still bobbing up and down, but I suddenly felt released: I could swim. I didn’t care that the river was pulling me downstream. I swam triumphantly out into the middle of the current. Above the roar and bubble of the water I heard my family clapping and cheering. As I swam in a lopsided circle and came back to the riverbank some fifty yards below them, I saw Auntie Joyce fish in her huge black handbag for her purse. I crawled up out of the water, brushed through a patch of stinging nettles and ran up the bank. I may have been cold, muddy and stung by the nettles, but I could swim.

  ‘Here you are, Ricky,’ Auntie Joyce said. ‘Well done.’

  I looked at the ten-shilling note in my hand. It was large, brown and crisp. I had never held that amount of money before: it seemed a fortune.

  ‘All right, everyone,’ Dad said. ‘On we go.’

  It was then that I realised he too was dripping wet. He had lost his nerve and dived in after me. He gave me a massive hug.

  I cannot remember a moment in my life when I have not felt the love of my family. We were a family that would have killed for each other – and we still are. My parents adored each other, and in my childhood there was barely a cross word between them. Eve, my mother, was always full of life and galvanised us. Ted, my father, was a rather quieter figure who smoked his pipe and enjoyed his newspaper, but both my parents had a love of adventure. Ted had wanted to be an archaeologist, but his father, a High Court judge, wanted him to follow Branson tradition and enter the law. Three generations of Bransons had been lawyers. When Ted was at school, my grandfather engaged a careers officer to talk to him and discuss possible careers. When it emerged that Ted wanted to be an archaeologist, my grandfather refused to pay the careers officer’s bill on the grounds that he hadn’t done his job properly. So Ted reluctantly went up to Cambridge to read law, and continued as a hobby to build up his collection of ancient artefacts and fossils which he called his ‘museum’.

  When the Second World War broke out in 1939, Ted volunteered for the Staffordshire Yeomanry, a cavalry regiment organised around the Inns of Court. His regiment fought in Palestine and Ted fought in the Battle of El Alamein in September 1942, and subsequent battles in the Libyan desert. He was then involved in the invasion of Italy and fought at Salerno and Anzio. Before Ted went to war, he devised a code to let my grandparents know where he was: they agreed that, in letters home, the cellar would be the world and certain drawers in the cupboards would represent certain countries. Ted would write and ask his mother to pull out his old riding gloves from the top left-hand shelf of the right-hand cupboard, which had been designated Palestine – unsurprisingly, the censors never picked this up and my grandparents could tell where he was.

  When Ted jo
ined up, his uncle, Jim Branson, had already become quite notorious in the army because he advocated eating grass. Great-uncle Jim had owned an estate in Hampshire which he had finally split up among the tenants and then gone to live in Balham, which in 1939 was a distant suburb of London. He was obsessed with eating grass, and Picture Post ran a story with a picture of him in his bathroom in Balham, where he grew tubs of grass which he made into hay. Whenever Jim was invited out to eat – which was increasingly often as he became a celebrity – he brought his nosebag with him and ate grass. In the army, everyone mocked my dad: ‘You must be Jim Branson’s son! Here, have some grass! You’re a sprightly looking colt. When are they going to geld you?’ and so on.

  Ted hotly denied any involvement with Uncle Jim. However, as the war progressed, David Stirling set up the Special Air Service, a crack regiment designed to operate behind enemy lines. The SAS had to travel light, and soon it became known that Jim Branson was advising David Stirling and his elite troops on how to live off grass and nuts.

  From then on, whenever Ted was asked, ‘Branson? Are you anything to do with Jim Branson?’ he puffed out his chest with pride: ‘Yes, actually he’s my uncle. Fascinating what he’s doing with the SAS, isn’t it?’

  Ted actually enjoyed the five years away from home, and found it quite difficult to knuckle down to the law again when he returned to Cambridge. A few years later, as a young barrister, he arrived rather late at a cocktail party where he was greeted by a beautiful blonde girl called Eve who swooped across the room towards him, picked up a tray of honeyed sausages, and said, ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Here, have some of these!’