by Ed Stafford
The rats, too, decided to remind me that constructing a bed might not be a bad idea at some point. At least they were some sort of company.
Once again the morning drizzle nagged at me to add guttering and a collection bucket to the shelter. It was now approaching the rainy season and with a few simple additions I could have a far superior system with water virtually on tap in my home. I worked through the rain and added the other side to the goat trap, but as I worked it became evident that I also needed to add a back and a roof to the construction.
‘Get this goat trap finished, Ed. Today is day seven working on it! That is almost as long as the eleven-day shelter!’
And so I worked like a bastard. I didn’t stop for lunch and all afternoon I lashed and snapped and cut until I had completed the back and the roof. I stretched my stiff back and arms to the sky as the sun was already close to the horizon. It was done. I didn’t want to set it, though, as I needed to ensure that when the door shut it would stay shut. I couldn’t risk the goat getting out when triggered − or, even worse, smashing the trap up in a panic. Tomorrow I could tweak it and set it, but for now I was proud of my commitment. Also completely knackered. Down the hill I went.
I was satisfied enough, though, and rewarded with a beautiful orange and pink twilight. I could feel the support of Amanda in the light. I can’t really explain it but I could still feel her holding my hand loyally through all my struggles.
On day forty-one I felt I was on the home stretch, that the end was in sight. I cleared the soil away from the two fully recovered taro plants that were close to my camp and made what looked like a little vegetable garden. Aesthetics then gave way to hunger and I decided to dig one up as I’d run out of carbohydrate and, as ever, energy was low.
My sore, weathered fingers moved away the soft soil and gently freed the stout root. I placed the main plant down and excavated the rich supporting earth to harvest all of the nutritious corms. As I dug, the inescapable bad news stared me in the face. There was only one potato-like vegetable on the whole plant. I glanced over to the second plant. Driven now more by shock than hunger I had to know whether it would be more fruitful. I scraped and pulled but, unbelievably, it too had just one small potato.
‘I don’t know what to say – I feel robbed,’ I stammered. ‘That’s bad. The only other carb I have is coconut. These two tiny vegetables are all I have to last me the next nineteen days!’
The sneering, bullying prefect had kicked me out of the dinner queue again. Once more I was the helpless victim of bad luck. ‘I didn’t need this this morning.’ Try as I might, I couldn’t help but feel hurt by the sheer bad fortune.
I sliced off five small slivers of taro and made a snail and taro broth. It was meagre at best but the warm liquid filled my stomach.
I was now sick of wasting time making things elaborately and so I threw a basic fishing spear together in ten minutes with my disc knife. It might snap or get blunted but it just needed to be functional and get me out fishing. As I approached a famously plentiful rock pool an eel darted through the shallows towards the open water. Instinctively I used the crude spear like a riding whip and slapped it down hard on the creature’s neck, stunning it. I then picked up the eel and chucked it in the basket for lunch.
I let out a half-amused sigh in recognition of how simple that had been. Because my new spear wasn’t precious I had just whacked it on the ground and the greater reach of the pole had meant that it had been very easy to strike the eel.
Despite the catch I couldn’t throw off this morning’s garden tragedy and I was struggling mentally. I felt really bloated, demotivated and distinctly off my best. I had to make up some more cordage and finish that trap. Steeped in apathy, I started to do all the things that I said I would this morning.
By day forty-one I knew that I didn’t want to be taken in any more by the ups and downs of everyday life. I knew that the best way was simply to surrender to the natural flow of life on the island and to accept what was. Some days things would go well, others wouldn’t be as easy. Yet my very sense of being mirrored each and every incidental peak and trough as if I had no roots of depth at all. It was as if I had no inherent sense of confidence in myself that could carry me through the tougher times without being affected by them. It was giddyingly unstable but every time something went wrong I felt tragic.
As the negativity crept in I recognised the familiar catalyst. I began to realise that I felt distinctly unwell − something that was guaranteed to bring me down. The goat trap only needed setting but I became too ill to go up the hill. My stomach became bloated and gradually began to get worse, and I started to develop abdominal cramps and pains. Remembering my mum’s medicine cabinet and the charcoal tablets that she had taken for trapped wind, I munched down some cool charred remains from the fire.
Before long I gave in and lay down by the fire. The stomach cramps caused me to writhe in pain and I began to move about restlessly in order to get comfortable but the discomfort kept chasing me to roll over again and again in the dirt.
With a project like this, designed to demonstrate that I can survive on my own, it is pretty clear that I have to deal with all eventualities on my own. But as the pain worsened I allowed the possibility of reaching out for help to enter my mind. How did I know that what I was experiencing wasn’t serious? What on earth was going on inside me? I considered the options. I had a satellite phone that could connect me to a doctor in the UK. Perhaps he might be able to ease my concerns if I talked him through my symptoms. But any such intervention was a tacit admission that I couldn’t fend for myself. That the island had got the better of me. That I had failed. I must not be so weak. I can’t justify the use of the satellite phone.
The waves of pain increased and coursed through me more intensely. I was now in serious pain, of that there was no doubt. My fears multiplied accordingly and I began to be genuinely worried about my health. What could it be? A parasite? Maybe I had ingested something that was growing in my belly? Perhaps it had reached the size where I was now feeling it inside me. Could it have been from the raw snails? That would explain my low energy if I was eating for two life forms. Perhaps it was a virus or an internal infection. I cursed myself for not being more knowledgeable and being able to self-diagnose. I cursed myself for not being more cautious about eating raw meat.
I made the snap decision that I was being bloody-minded and that I shouldn’t risk my health for the sake of a TV programme.
I’m sure that I often undermine myself because of my inherent honesty but I was aware that there was also a clear understanding that intervention meant contact with somebody who was actually there to help. Now that I think about it, the idea of that must have been so appealing because I had been isolated for so long. I would be speaking to someone who could listen to my problems, someone who might just be able to provide some solutions. And someone whose job it was to care.
I fumbled with the bubble wrap that was gaffer-taped around the satellite phone and held down the power key to turn on the electronic device with my grubby digits. It all looked alien and unfamiliar. My first point of contact was always to be to Steven on Komo and so I entered the bizarre digital world of the phone’s menu and contacts and found his number.
‘Steven, it’s Ed.’
‘Is everything OK, Ed?’ answered Steven, despite clearly knowing that I’d only break out the phone in an emergency.
‘Yes, mate − I’m sure it is,’ I found myself answering, immediately feeling more in control, ‘but I’ve got some quite severe abdominal pain and I’d like to speak to a doctor in the UK just so that he can put me in the clear.’
‘OK, I’m on it. Leave your phone on, Ed, and I’ll get Dr Sundeep to call you.’
Having hung up, I virtually crawled down on to the beach to get a clear view of the sky. My Iridium phone worked through low orbiting satellites that required a very clear view of the sky to rece
ive incoming calls and I couldn’t afford the hit and miss of being under the canopy.
I do not know how long I lay on the beach but by the time the phone rang it was dark. I had my green top on to keep me warm but no grass skirt as it was awkward and uncomfortable and I was in no mood for the silly costume. I spoke to Dr Sundeep Dhillon, a leading expedition doctor, during the occasional lapses in my pain and was able to talk him through my condition as I lay in the sand, waves of pain coming and going. It began to spit with rain.
‘I would say eight out of ten,’ I told him in reply to how bad I thought the pain was.
Sundeep didn’t pull any punches.
‘There is no reason why you couldn’t have developed appendicitis or indeed an obstructed bowel.’ Fantastic news, I thought sarcastically, but I was incredibly relieved to have someone thinking about me. ‘If you were in England I’d admit you to hospital, put you on a drip and run some blood tests. But I understand the position you are in and it is only you who can make the call as to whether you need to be evacuated.’
I didn’t have the answer. I wanted him to make the call but he wouldn’t. I knew that if I pushed him he would have to err on the side of caution and take me off the island. I didn’t want that. Did I? I needed time to think and so asked the doctor if we could speak again in half an hour. He promised to call me back.
I was now probably suffering an equal amount of mental torment as I was physical pain. The temptation of a hot cup of tea, a bed in a hospital with crisp white sheets and professionals to ensure that I was comfortable was alluring. But that would be the end of my experiment − and ultimately I would have failed. The cramps rose and crashed through me anew. I knew deep down that I had to do something about this.
After forty very long minutes in the rain, with wet sand now coating my lower body, the damp phone vibrated.
‘Ed, any progress?’ asked Sundeep.
‘None. It’s the same, Sundeep.’
‘I’ve tasked Steven with bringing you out three courses of generic antibiotics so that you can be treated on the island without having to physically break your experience. They will be with you soon.’ We got cut off but that was enough.
I was on my own again but they were coming. It felt amazing to know that I was going to see someone very soon. I gingerly lifted myself to my feet and walked through the darkness and the coconut husks towards the flicker of orange under my shelter. I wearily unstrung my grass skirt from the rafters, wrapped it around my waist and sat down by the warmth of the fire to await the boat. I felt better already.
Crikey − I felt better: that’s not good! Maybe I could catch Steven in time to tell him not to come. I rang Komo but I couldn’t get through. This wouldn’t be surprising if they were already at sea, crossing this part of the Pacific with its vast waves in the dead of night. He was coming and I’d instigated it. I could not stop it now.
I thought I could hear the boat’s motor half an hour before it arrived. Every sense was tuned into the forthcoming meeting and my mind warped the wind and waves into mechanical sounds that didn’t exist. At last, a real motor could be heard in the distance and it was immediately followed by torchlight and voices.
‘Ed? Are you there?’
It was Steven.
The worst of the pain now past, this was actually the last thing I wanted. Nothing against Steven, he’s a lovely guy, but I didn’t want to see him. I could make this on my own. I started to boil with frustration at the decision I had made.
The torchlight advanced up the beach and entered the forest.
‘Ed?’ he repeated, ‘I’m coming in.’
‘I’m here, mate,’ I sighed. Steven approached the shelter, filming as he went. This annoyed me as I didn’t want this indiscretion to be recorded. ‘You say it started yesterday,’ he began, pointing the camera in my face.
‘Can you switch that off?’ I snapped. ‘I’m over the worst. But an hour ago I’d have been leaving with you on the boat.’
Steven dispensed the three courses of antibiotics that I was to take and asked me whether I needed to come off the island. The contact, far from refreshing me, frustrated me and I just wanted him to leave.
‘No − I’m sorry.’ I was grateful for the antibiotics, and for the boat coming out in the dark, but I wanted to stay put. ‘They will kick in and I’ll be fine. I don’t want to come off the island.’
Steven was slightly confused. He had expected me to be in a worse state and I have to admit I was feeling a touch stupid as I wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d felt earlier.
‘Let’s speak tomorrow,’ I suggested, ‘and if, as I suspect, I’m fine, then we continue as normal.’
Steven agreed, spoke to his companions from the boat and they withdrew to the vessel. I could hear voices for a while before the motor coughed into life and the lights faded into the distance.
‘You cock, Stafford,’ I berated myself as I lay down again to rest. It was good to have the antibiotics, but could I have managed without them? Well, perhaps I could have. Rage at my own physical and mental weakness tore through me as I stared at the thatched shelter above my head.
By morning the pain had pretty much gone. I just felt drained. The one thing that consoled me was that I’d made the decision last night not to leave the island. The doctor had said that the fact that my stomach was gurgling was a good indication that there wasn’t a blockage. The pain had become less and less frequent. He had thought that I might have a virus. I was sure that I wasn’t absorbing the nutrients from the food that I ate. Everything was flushing straight through me in three vast dumps a day.
I eased my way back into work by making new flights for my arrows. My mark one flights had dried and curled over and so needed replacing. I opted this time for coconut palm leaves that had already dried flat. It wasn’t hard to cut a few from the roof and tie them on.
By early afternoon, however, the pain was returning, and in my state of frustration this calmed me as it suggested that I’d perhaps not been such a hypochondriac after all. My stomach was bloated again and I was streaming with sweat.
Then something happened that changed my experience on the island more than I could have imagined. Between my camp and the beach, among the decaying coconuts under the trees, was a coconut crab. Up until now I had thought that hermit crabs were big. This thing caught me off guard as it was the biggest crab I had ever seen − even in pictures. The beast was well over a foot long and looked more like a lobster on steroids than a crab. I swiftly brought my heel on to the back of its head and it was dead. No fight at all. I lifted it to reveal a vast warm abdomen hanging from its twitching body.
During my journey from ex-army captain to who I am today, I have seen and experienced many things that don’t make much sense. As I have also said, I have felt that someone is looking after me. Outside religion, that doesn’t translate to a western mindset, but it started in the Amazon and it hasn’t left me. In my weakened, malnourished state I had been given a meal that was beyond my wildest expectations.
I laid the exoskeleton on the fire to roast and salivated at the prospect of what all that protein and fat would do for my body and soul. Energy not yet restored, I lay down in expectation of the best meal of my life. My stomach was still jabbing me but I felt like I had the antidote. So I waited.
Was it the antibiotics attacking my illness or the fact that I knew something had been done about it? Had my prayers been answered or had I just ridden out a tough time to find better fortune?
Whatever it was, my strength started to return before I even tasted a single mouthful. As the meat barbecued, the gases that had been trapped in the shell escaped and I started to pick at the smaller bits. The texture of proper food for the first time in forty-two days was extraordinary. I broke open the claws to reveal the largest steaming slabs of white meat, each a meal in themselves.
Then there was the abdomen. I have alrea
dy explained how the taste of the hermit crab abdomen had become a delicacy to me, but this one was the size of a melon. I broke it free from the body and it acted like a cup that I sat in the embers. After I had had my fill of meat I hung enough crab meat in the rafters to last for supper and breakfast. Wrapping the green shirt around my hand, I lifted the oily cocoon out of the fire and set it down in front of me to cool. I could smell coconut oil rising from the abdomen and impatiently I lifted the hot Holy Grail to my lips.
The warm oil that passed over my tongue and down my throat was life itself. I am certain that it would have been too rich and fatty for anyone to ingest in this raw state unless you were seriously depleted of nutrients and you were locked on absorption mode. I have never, ever experienced drinking oil as being so wonderful. And the amount was vast, too. Over a pint of pure coconut fat medicine filled my belly and glowed inside me. I could not stop smiling. I was so, so happy.
I grabbed my refurbished arrows and strode up the hill like a gladiator. With a grace that I’d not felt on the island before, I notched the arrow, drew the string back and released such a straight powerful shot that it embedded half the nail in a tree. With some effort, I heaved the arrow free with the realisation that I had been given new hope, new possibilities. I was standing atop the island with energy, motivation and a lethal weapon that had finally come of age.
‘Not as good as sticking in a goat, obviously,’ I reported, but for the first time I had a spark inside me that gave me the confidence that I really could now catch a goat.
Chapter 6
THRIVING
I slept extraordinarily well and ate the crab claws for breakfast. They were nothing short of phenomenal. The crab had done me for three meals now − twenty-four hours of amazing food from a single catch. The meat wasn’t smelly like seafood can be − it was as clean and nutritious and as tasty as a large fillet of poached salmon in coconut oil.