by Bear Grylls
Roller followed roller, surge followed surge.
By dusk, the dense fog was returning, but we were still surfing forward at good speeds, more than ever trusting in our instruments to keep us on course. I started to wonder what would happen if while racing down one of these rollers we were propelled into a collision with an iceberg. At these speeds, and in the dark, we would have no time to react with the energy of the waves behind us. It was not a good thought, but I consoled myself by remembering being told that at this time of year we would not hit ice until much further north. We had to trust that and keep the speed on through the fog.
It had been a strange kind of day.
First the fog, then the falling temperatures, then the slowly swelling waves, then the darkness, finally all of this together. Piece by piece, element by element, the ocean seemed to be assembling its forces against us. Individually, none of these factors would have been a concern but, as they all massed together that first night, each of us had the distinct feeling that we were entering a new phase of the expedition. We were beginning the work in earnest. The playtime was over and we were entering the arena where mistakes would become extremely costly.
Each mile travelled to the north felt like a mile travelled to a different level. It was exciting, it was what we had put so much time and energy into preparing for, but I would be lying if I did not admit that my heart was beginning to pound.
The distant flash of a lighthouse through the mist and darkness reminded us how close we were to the coast, as the Belle Isle Strait narrowed towards its most northerly gap. The boat really needed to be driven now. Concentrate. Control her. Compensate for the power of the waves pulling you off course. Feel her.
The RIB was built for these conditions and she was thriving in the surf and this was what we had trained for. This was why we were here. There was nobody else around: just the waves, the fog, the boat and the five of us. This was living; these were the moments when I felt most alive.
As we approached the Strait, now only 50 miles to the north, I found myself privately trying to work out how the rota would unfold; who would be helming at the critical hour, guiding us through the currents and funnel of sea and racing tidal water. It would be me or Mick; I knew Mick would be thinking the same.
It was going to be difficult. There were no stars out, and in the fog it would be easy to lose all sense of direction and perspective.
At around midnight, when Charlie was at the helm, we found ourselves travelling in completely the wrong direction before he made a 180-degree turn and set us back on course. He cursed himself out loud, but it was so easy to do. The horizon and sea become a confused blend of rolling blackness. The chart-plotter screen is an eye-aching blur of green and reds. Tiredness pounds at your eyelids. The waves yank you violently off course and every small over-correction is replicated by the jet drive at the stern. The boat is so sensitive to helm.
Just before 1 a.m., I came off watch and Mick took over. It would be he who would helm us through the Belle Isle Strait ahead. He needed his concentration now and we all knew it. None of us slept and we all sat up and watched him guide us through, struggling to keep us on course in the roar of the surf behind.
It felt as if we were riding some kind of wild beast, all the time knowing that we could never be completely in control of something so powerful and untameable. As we surged forward, I found myself praying again that there would be no ice.
Again and again the boat rose and fell, as huge waves lifted her hull before throwing us down the face of the wave in front.
Both time and sea were now racing.
An hour later, I was crouching down in the pitch black beside the console with my torch, trying to check one of the fuel gauges, when the boat was hit violently by a wave side-on. My head smashed against the metal console and I slumped back into the seat holding my forehead in my hands.
I shouted out loud, my eyes closed tight. I was feeling dazed and soon I had a splitting headache.
Charlie asked, ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I replied, wincing. ‘Can you hold the torch while I just recheck this fuel gauge.’
This was always a tricky task; the fuel was stored in four areas and, for reasons relating to the distribution of weight and maximizing the boat’s performance, we needed to drain the fuel from the centre tank first, then from the tanks on the side and lastly from the bladder at the front.
The whole system operated on a complex series of fuel drain levers and manifolds. Andy had marked them all for us to be able to read and understand, even at night.
I was on my knees trying to check the dial of the centre tank we were using, just to make sure it wasn’t time to change over. This check involved pumping air into the tank and giving the dial time to settle before taking the reading.
‘It looks fine,’ I shouted to Charlie who was right next to me. ‘The reading looks OK.’
The engine typically ticks over at 2,600 revs per minute, producing a roar that would seem invasive for a short period but which, for us on the ocean, became almost hypnotically comforting after a while. That roar represented raw power and movement in the right direction, homewards. We grew to love it.
Fifteen minutes later, for no apparent reason, the noise began to die. The revs plummeted. Then it stopped. All of a sudden, our loud mechanical world plunged into a terrifying silence. From 450 hp to nothing, the boat was now running on momentum. The engine was dead.
Our hearts stopped.
It was approaching 2.30 a.m., and we were still in the last port of the Strait. Everyone was immediately awake and alert, fired with adrenalin, desperately trying to work out what needed to be done. Andy had been in the sardine tin, but he was out on his feet in a second, checking the levers, the filters, the engine monitoring systems, all lightning-fast, instinctively moving into reaction mode.
‘Get the engine lid up now,’ he said calmly and firmly.
The rest of us reached for the latches and lifted the lid, as our naval engineer set about his work.
‘She’s out of fuel,’ he said, his face contorting with strain as he grappled with the engine primer. ‘We need to act fast. The turbo is not going to like this at all.’
He started frantically pumping the engine primer; pumping then priming. I stood over him, acutely aware that we were drifting powerlessly in one of the world’s most treacherous stretches of water, vulnerable to any rogue wave.
Without the roar of the engine, for the first time we could hear the wind licking violently off the waves. It was much stronger, much more threatening than I had realized.
The sea was churning white and black, and suddenly we were just a little boat at the mercy of the sea. With no propulsion from the engine, we would have no ability to respond if one of these rollers hit us side-on. In the darkness, in what was the first major crisis of the expedition, I just hoped and prayed that Andy could get her working again.
Time seemed to be suspended.
We waited and waited.
Two and a half minutes passed like hours.
Then Andy looked at me, then back at the engine, and said loudly, ‘Try her now.’
I took a breath and turned the key in the ignition.
There was a bubbling noise, a spluttering.
Then nothing.
‘Again, Bear,’ he said. ‘And hold it.’
I did.
A deeper noise, and then a different noise, and then finally that comforting roar as the engine sprang into life and the boat came alive again.
Several hours later, Mick told me how his legs had turned to jelly when he heard that silence descend. Mine had too, and they stayed that way for several hours afterwards.
‘Well done, buddy,’ I said to Andy. ‘Good work.’
‘The central tank was empty. But I don’t know how. Who last checked it?’
Central tank? Empty?
I knew what they meant.
‘It was me,’ I told everyone over the roar of the engine. �
�I’m so sorry. I must have misread it. It won’t happen again, I promise.’
We carried on in silence.
I knew I had caused the crisis. I had checked that tank just a few moments before and I must have misread the dial. Hitting my head was no excuse. I was angry with myself. It could have been disastrous. How could I have been so stupid, so careless?
With hindsight, it might have been a good thing that it was me who made the first mistake of the expedition. It was inevitable that there were going to be mistakes – it was only natural – but nobody wanted to be the first.
Maybe the fact that it was me, as leader, who had made the first cock-up took the pressure off the others, but I felt I had let them down a little. I remember my late father saying that if you want a good team, then pick people who are better than you. Most people do the opposite. It makes them feel better. But I had picked people who were better than me.
It was always our great strength.
It was with huge relief that we eventually turned and watched the Belle Isle Strait fade into the darkness behind.
The rest of the night wore on and just before dawn the mist lifted to reveal the black outline of the Labrador coast away to our left. The wind was biting and dramatically colder now, but we knew we had survived our first test.
‘Wow, look at that!’ Mick shouted suddenly.
I turned around to see an iceberg, which must have been the size of Buckingham Palace, half a mile away on the port side. It was incredible: huge, cold and grey. The waves rolled past it furiously.
We stared in disbelief. If we had collided with that during the night, there would only have been one survivor, and it would not have been us. Thank God, the fog was clearing.
‘This is too early to be seeing ice,’ I thought to myself. We had been told we wouldn’t see ice until we were off the coast of Greenland. Seeing icebergs this far south was not a good sign. But I knew what I was seeing here off the port side. What worried me most though was what else we had been told that was wrong.
We had read that what you see of an iceberg represents no more than 6 per cent of its total mass; based on that fact, this berg was enormous. It seemed to belong here. In our small, yellow-tubed boat, I felt we didn’t. We were trespassing, and we were alone. I felt as though the iceberg was looking at us, angry to be disturbed in its territory.
Some experts had warned us that icebergs might not show up on our radar screens, but this wasn’t generally the case. In fact, the Canadian coastguards place radar reflectors on the large ones, and this gave us some reassurance – though not much.
The following seas continued to drive us on towards our destination, and we reckoned we would reach St Mary’s harbour, on the Labrador coast, at around 6.30 a.m., approximately three hours ahead of schedule.
Andy was due to helm at five o’clock but he had just got off to sleep and, as a small gesture of apology for getting him up in the middle of the night when the engine stopped, I suggested I would do some of his shift. We were all tired.
By dawn, and only three miles from shore, we suddenly felt a rush of warm air on our faces. It was a welcome change from the cold winds that had been blowing all night, and with this wind came a rich aroma of heather. Labrador looked and smelled like the wilds of Scotland and, as we carefully wound our way from Battle Harbour down the mouth of the remote estuary to the port of St Mary’s, all five of us were buzzing.
The land on either side of this narrow inlet was barren and untamed, but eventually we turned a corner and found a small harbour full of fishing boats, surrounded by a cluster of corrugated-iron buildings. It was early morning, but people were already at work on the one concrete quay, preparing thousands of freshly caught crabs.
Our early arrival had caught the local reception party by surprise, and we pulled alongside an old wooden pier to wait. We began to unwind and enjoy the quiet of the moment as we waited for the local contact to arrive and guide us to where we were to moor. We were so pleased to be here, safe and with some time to prepare for the first of our real tests ahead: the Labrador Sea.
We dug out the bottle of Mumm champagne we had brought to mark our first sighting of an iceberg and removed it from its bubble wrap. The cork flew off and the five of us drank contentedly.
However, within minutes, we were being bitten to shreds by giant mosquitoes and blood was pouring down Charlie’s neck.
‘Get the cigarettes out, quick,’ he shouted, slapping his forehead frantically. ‘That’ll keep them away.’
It didn’t.
Before long, each of us was covered in huge bites that oozed blood. They itched like hell. None of us had seen mosquitoes this big, and Nige said they obviously had to be this huge to survive so far north – they would need to be well insulated. Well, after such a feast of English blood, they would certainly be that all right.
As we scurried around, each clutching four cigarettes in both hands in a vain attempt to dispel the insects, we heard a voice behind us.
‘Welcome! We weren’t expecting you until half past nine.’ The booming voice belonged to Alton Rumbolt, mayor of St Mary’s.
‘How do you do?’ I replied, putting out my hand. ‘Yes, we had following seas, and we’ve made good time.’
‘OK, well, as soon as you are all sorted out, I will show you to where you are staying.’
Alton led us along a dirt track up the hill towards the harbour buildings, and almost everybody stopped to greet us as we walked by. They all seemed to know what we were doing, and they all seemed eager to help.
‘Enjoy your stay in St Mary’s,’ said one of the fishermen.
‘Thanks,’ Nige replied.
We walked on.
Alton Rumbolt noted, ‘That was Robert Rumbolt.’
‘I see,’ Nige said innocently. ‘Is he your brother?’
‘No . . . just a relative.’
It soon became clear that the majority of the population of St Mary’s, which did not exceed 250 in total, was also named Rumbolt. And when it came to naming shops or businesses, it seemed they didn’t like to venture too far from the path of convention: ‘Rumbolt General Stores’; ‘Rumbolt Fishing’; ‘Rumbolt Supplies’.
Nige persevered: ‘Is that your shop over there, Alton?’
‘Nope,’ Alton replied, ‘that’s my cousin’s.’
‘What about Rumbolt Repairs?’
By this stage, Nige was finding everything quite amusing. He had, after all, been at sea for a while.
‘Not mine,’ Alton replied. ‘That’s my second cousin’s.’
We reached our rooms and crashed. Everyone was drained. Nobody had got much sleep in the sardine tin during the past two nights. It’s not easy to fall asleep beside a roaring engine, bracing yourself every time a wave hits the boat. Sleep only tends to come when you are so exhausted that you physically can’t stay awake. As Andy would tell people when asked how we slept, ‘You can sleep anywhere if you’re tired enough.’
In due course, Mick and I headed back down to the boat. We clambered inside the cubby, where Andy’s spares and our supplies were stowed during passage, and dialled home on the SAT phone. We needed to speak first to Chloë, to update her on our progress, and then to Mike Town for an updated forecast.
More than ever, we were determined to get this next judgement exactly right. The next leg, across the infamous Labrador Sea to Greenland, would be one of the toughest of the entire expedition, and we didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks. The passage through the Belle Isle Strait had been rougher than we’d expected and that had taught us a vital lesson. The forecast might say the outlook is fine, but the reality for a small boat in unpredictable seas can be very different. We weren’t a big cruise liner or a frigate. We were effectively a rugged, inshore speedboat, and as far as forecasts were concerned, this was worth remembering.
Mike Town was not overly optimistic about the prospects.
‘There’s a north-westerly wind of around Force Four to Five,’ he said, ‘and you’ll be
heading north-east, so that will probably give you a beam sea for the crossing.’
‘That’s not ideal but it’s manageable,’ I said.
We checked a couple of websites, and they confirmed the likely direction of the wind. The data all forecast north-westerlies, and, for us, that meant beam seas.
Our kind of boat was most vulnerable in a beam sea. With the waves rolling across us, we have little lateral stability compared with either a head-on or following sea. I didn’t like this.
Mike added cautiously, ‘It looks as if the winds are going to get stronger, not weaker, after about forty-eight hours. But if you do decide to wait, you could be in St Mary’s for a while.’
It made the decision much more difficult. Did we sit and wait, or risk it, getting most of the 700-mile crossing completed before the bad weather really kicked in?
I discussed this with Mick. He agreed we didn’t want to get stuck, but we also had to be safe.
In the end, we decided we would prepare the boat to leave the following day, but we would not make a final decision until we had checked the weather forecast again in the morning. That kept our options open. It also meant we would be ready if we did decide to try to beat the bad weather that was coming straight down from the Arctic through the Labrador Sea.
Throughout the afternoon as Andy, now rested, pottered around the boat, doing various maintenance tasks, I mulled over the issues. Mick and I were almost certain we should get a good night’s sleep and leave at first light in the morning. The forecast was not that bad, and my instinct was to keep moving.
It would be great to stay in St Mary’s a bit longer and spend time with the people there, but we all knew we needed to be well across the worst of the Labrador Sea before the strong winds reached our latitude. Conditions of Force Four to Five over the next two days were a reasonable option.
I felt confident we would be OK. My only concern was that this was such a crucial leg to get right, and I knew there would be no room for error once we were 400 miles offshore. It would be too late. I had never been anything like that far from land before. The furthest I had been was about 50 miles and even that had felt very exposed. I reached for the Dictaphone, and spoke . . .