Bear Grylls

by Bear Grylls

  As the early morning of Friday, 8 August 2003 dawned over the Denmark Strait, it was indeed a new beginning.

  I asked Mick to get all the guys up and huddle round. I wanted to encourage them. We could get through this now. There was hope. We had been through hell together, but I felt we were emerging out the other side.

  So we cramped together, all of us freezing cold, the others squatting behind us on the edge of the sardine tin. I felt the cold chill of dawn on my face as I turned to them. It was 5.15 a.m. We were all exhausted and bedraggled, wearing full gear and helmets, squashed on this small boat in the midst of a still-heaving ocean.

  ‘OK, guys,’ I began, shouting again to make myself heard. ‘First of all, I am sorry that I broke the rota. I found a way of handling the boat, using the bucket to control her, so I wanted to keep going rather than stop in the middle of the night and have to explain how we could each do this.

  ‘I know it’s been a tough and bloody cold night for everyone, but we’re going to get through this. It’s daylight now. The sea has just lost its greatest ally – the darkness. There is no reason why we shouldn’t make it out of this. We’re going to reach Iceland.

  ‘Only two things will stop us.

  ‘The first is that we run out of fuel. But there is no need for this to happen. Andy has control of this, and we have enough to reach Iceland. But, Charlie, help him. Look out for him. Get him something to eat. Help him manage the fuel systems. Andy, we need all your skill and attention for these last few hundred miles.’

  Andy nodded.

  ‘The second is that we flip the boat. But I am telling you, we will not flip her if we concentrate and helm her correctly. We will flip if anyone loses concentration. Whoever is helming needs to be 120 per cent alert. There was margin for helming error before; that does not exist in this sea state.

  ‘From now on, we go back to the rota. Everybody will helm for only half an hour at a time now, and we must help each other. We must all dig deeper than ever before. If we do this, we will reach Iceland before nightfall.’

  Then I took a couple of minutes with everyone in turn, to show them how we could minimize the slamming by adjusting the position of the bucket over the jet. They all saw our defiant, plucky RIB respond, hugging the breaking waves as she punched through them.

  Charlie later described my whole speech as ‘almost Churchillian’. I’m not sure that’s quite true, but I was just trying to keep everyone hanging on in there, just a little bit longer.

  Mick and I were exhausted by now, and we collapsed into the sardine tin. Nige and Andy began to share the helming. Charlie had told me he didn’t want to take the responsibility at this stage. I respected him for saying that. It was time for Andy and Nige to become the most important men on the boat, with our lives in their hands. And Charlie, as ever, kept their spirits up by feeding them chocolate and water.

  Together, we had survived our longest night.

  Back home in England, our friends and families were starting what would very soon become their longest day.

  11. LOST AND FOUND

  Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you, wherever you go.

  Joshua 1:9

  We had said we would call the base team at 8.30 a.m.

  This was impossible.

  As we had feared, the physical battering had taken its toll on our equipment, knocking out the compass, the radio and the SAT phone. The five of us had somehow survived the night of Force Eight gales, but, one by one, our carefully installed electronic systems had packed up and died.

  By dawn, only the Simrad plotter and the Caterpillar engine were still in working order. And without the power to charge the SAT phone, we had no way of making these vital calls back to the UK. Our families, friends and our UK base would hear nothing, and there was little we could do.

  The waves were still dangerous and wild, and the wind was still holding at gale strength; even in the daylight, when we could see the waves, we were fighting to survive.

  Without precious electrical power, we had no way of telling if our tracking device was working.

  It wasn’t. We had dropped off the screen completely. Just like that.

  It subsequently became clear we had lost power at 3.16 a.m.; that was the time when the tracker unit had stopped transmitting the signals, indicating our precise position and speed.

  We knew that many people, up to 30,000 a day, and most importantly our friends and families, had been following our progress, live, through the website. They had grown accustomed to logging on and checking our latest position, as broadcast by the tracking unit every thirty minutes. At 3.16 that morning, the blips stopped and we effectively disappeared.

  Back home, people were waking up and could see clearly that there was some kind of problem.

  Shara recalls:

  I had become obsessed with tracking Bear’s position on the Internet. I was staying with my mother in the country, and she had become obsessed by it as well. So we got up at about quarter to eight on the Friday morning, and logged on as usual. But something was wrong. Their position had not been updated since 3 a.m. I thought that was a bit weird, but then there had been the odd little gap before, so I didn’t panic.

  I called Chloë, and she said not to worry. She told me Mick had called at two thirty in the morning, and had promised they would phone her again at eight thirty. She didn’t say what Mick had told her about the storm. So I assumed all was OK. Chloë promised she would give me a call as soon as she heard from them.

  I was busy getting Jesse ready because we were driving up to London for his eight-week check-up, but I noticed half past eight come and go with no call from Chloë. I didn’t want to be a nuisance, but I was just beginning to get a bit concerned, so I called her at nine thirty. She told me they had still not called.

  Chloë found herself in the midst of a nightmare. She was speaking to the families, assuring them everything was OK, explaining that we had been warned that the tracker unit might not function so far north; maybe that was all that was wrong. She was also trying to supply Captain Pennefather with the information he needed to work out what had happened to us. She was in at the deep end and was desperately worried.

  Andy Billing was at his post on our barge, and he threw himself into sourcing relevant information, narrowing down the possibilities. He spoke to the team at MarineTrack, the manufacturers of our tracking system, and they posted a reassuring message on their website, explaining the system might be disrupted this far north. Chloë contacted Shaun White at Ocean Dynamics, seeking information about the electrical systems on the boat. He gave her the telephone number of the electrician at Mustang Marine who had actually fitted the systems, but he was away on holiday.

  Meanwhile, we were continuing to make slow, steady progress in heavy seas, oblivious to the fact that back home, so many individuals were getting very nervous in an effort to track us down.

  As soon as Captain Pennefather logged on to the Internet at 6 a.m. and saw our tracker had gone down he swung into action. This was his moment. He had always said that if we were in trouble he would drop everything and take over. He understood the sea and the procedures better than Chloë or Andy. And I always knew he would be there in the background – ready.

  Willie recalls:

  The analysis started at six in the morning, and it was crucial that we made the right calls. The Icelanders were only going to dispatch a rescue team if we asked them, and if we agreed to pay for it. Right from the start of this long and demanding day, the ball was in our court.

  My first thought was that the crew had not put out an EPIRB emergency call, so the chances were they were OK. I was not overly concerned, even when Bear didn’t call at eight thirty, as he had promised. Although I did remember mentioning to the crew before they left that I reckoned if the boat was turned over in a storm, it would be pretty bloody hard to swim and set that EPIRB off, but all the same, I tried not to go down that road yet.

  We
discovered the voltage on their tracker had been slowing over a period of hours and that if they had lost their electrics, this would explain not only why the tracker unit was dead, but also why they were unable to make any calls on the SAT phone. By mid-morning, the people at Iridium told us the crew had tried to make a call at ten thirty, but no connection had been made.

  Of course, we were dealing with probabilities. Anything could have happened out there, and the base team, specifically Chloë and Andy, did a tremendous job holding things together this end.

  I had indeed tried to call, albeit a bit later than scheduled, but conditions were not very conducive to phone calls in that storm. We had gone through the procedure of slowing the boat, and then I had crawled into the cubbyhole again and unwrapped the receiver with wet, shaking hands. I had tried and tried, but the connection never happened. I felt desperate. I tried again, to no avail.

  I never found out why it failed. But I had no choice but to give up. All we could do was keep going and pray.

  Friday, 8 August was unfolding as the hottest day of the year in London, with temperatures touching over 100°F. Out in the Denmark Strait, it was freezing. The high was sitting comfortably over the UK and it wasn’t shifting. This was resulting in very deep depressions and low pressures up where we were, 1,000 miles north. We were shivering and wet. The sea was still a confused mess of white horses, hitting us from every angle, but Andy and Nige were doing an amazing job at the helm, keeping the boat in the right direction, withstanding the towers of freezing water that collapsed over the boat every now and then.

  Everyone was emotionally and physically exhausted, but we were ploughing on, occasionally now boosting our speed to 14 or 15 knots, but then dropping again to 8 or 9.

  We didn’t speak much, but I felt that the night’s terror had eased. We knew deep down that if we kept our heads, we would be able to reach Iceland in safety.

  Unfortunately, back in the UK, there was still no evidence to help Shara and everyone else reach that same conclusion. She fought her way through the traffic coming up to London, but with Jesse hot, uncomfortable and frequently crying in the back of the car, she was starting to feel the strain of uncertainty. She couldn’t even begin to contemplate the worst.

  Shara recalls:

  I arrived at the barge just before eleven, and found Andy Billing there. The telephone rang, and I just took the call because I was standing nearest the phone. It was a man called Howard, from MarineTrack. He asked for Chloë; I said it was Bear’s wife speaking. He explained that the battery had probably failed. He couldn’t tell me why, but it was pretty obvious, even to me. Batteries go wrong when they get wet. But I knew that their batteries were designed specially for the boat. So what had happened? I didn’t even want to think about a capsize in those seas.

  I just carried on, but was getting in more and more of a state. It was such a hot day, and I hadn’t really eaten. I took Jesse to the doctor and the check-up didn’t go particularly well – they told me there was something dodgy with his hip. It was the final straw. I burst into tears. I sat in my car like this, crying in the rush-hour traffic all the way back to my mum’s.

  There was still no news when I got to my mother’s house. I sat outside in tears. I called Chloë and said something must have gone wrong because Bear had said he would call, and if Bear says he will call, then he always calls. My legs were shaking under me.

  Then my mum started crying, and I asked her, ‘Why are you crying?’ Then I cried even more.

  Willie called to ask if I had phoned Sally, Bear’s mother. I said I hadn’t because they were all having their holiday on the Isle of Wight and I didn’t want to ruin it; at least not until we had firm news, either way. I was just petrified – petrified that something really bad had happened.

  As that long day wore on, the base team worked hard to keep our families as calm and reassured as possible under the circumstances. They worked out what they would say, making sure they got their facts right and synchronized.

  Chloë, Andy and Willie agreed on the following: 1) Say the EPIRB had not gone off, suggesting there had not been any disaster; 2) Say the electronics had probably failed; 3) Point out that, although the tracker had failed at 0300, we had tried to make a satellite phone call at 1030, so at least at that time we were upright. 4) Stress that these conditions were manageable for any rescue services that might be employed.

  One thing worried Willie. He had quietly done some research of his own with the Naval Weather Centre. The conditions at the time the systems went down, they told him, were gale force. That was all he needed, and he thanked them. He didn’t even want to imagine what we were dealing with out there. He had been a Royal Naval officer for thirty-four years. He knew what the sea could do.

  Meanwhile, we were ploughing on. Progress was slow, but progress was progress. However, I was starting to worry about Nige. He was looking sluggish and exhausted.

  Nige had exceeded all my expectations of him since the start of the expedition. He had never experienced anything remotely like this before, but had never once grumbled or made a fuss. He had quietly got on with it and had been incredibly strong. Nige, to me, is the typically understated, uncomplaining, brave British hero. The kind that would have been on Arctic patrols during the war, dressed in a duffel coat on the bridge of some small naval vessel, for months on end, seeking no recognition, just doing his job . . . a genuine, quiet, funny, tough Brit.

  At the end of the leg from St Mary’s to Greenland, Nige had been absolutely exhausted and, just like the rest of us, he really needed that rest, which the appearance of the weather window then proceeded to deny him.

  As a result, when we started out from Greenland, his boots were still damp and his body ached. He didn’t moan, because that is not his nature; he suffered the discomfort in silence.

  ‘Nige, how you doing, buddy?’ I said, prodding his shoulders.

  He stirred and murmured he was fine.

  I lay with him for a while, sometimes holding him, just being close. We were struggling in these relentlessly massive, heaving seas, and the wind was still freezing. But by going from minute to minute, hour after hour, through what amounted to the most terrifying period of any of our lives, we had survived together. We were not safe yet, but we were no more than 120 miles from Iceland.

  Nige recalls:

  Feeling cold was one thing but I was beginning to hallucinate as well. I was dozing in and out of sleep, and having really powerful, vivid dreams. At one point, my parents were beside me. At another time, in the height of the storm during the night, I had seen the most bizarre image: I could very clearly see an old man sitting on the side of the boat. He was in his seventies, wearing a yellow jersey and beige trousers, and he looked curiously like Bob Hope! He seemed to have come down a rope ladder and, even though it was raining, he was completely dry.

  ‘Do you want to come with me?’ the old man asked.

  ‘No. I don’t think so,’ I replied.

  Then he smiled and disappeared. I wasn’t sure whether it was an angel or whether it really was Bob Hope! It was odd, but it was OK. I wasn’t concerned after this.

  I just wanted to be warm and dry.

  Looking back, I am certain that at critical times, when we needed it most, a presence, a guardian angel, was looking over us. I think we all felt it that night, and it was comforting. Maybe there is much more going on out there, around us, than we realize. I hope so.

  Huddled close to Nige, I reached out for the Dictaphone. My hands were still shaking, and my skin had turned completely white, as if it had been submerged in a bath for three days – which I guess we all had.

  Nothing was easy, even turning the Dictaphone on with shaky fingers. Time seemed to be passing so slowly. All I wanted was for this leg to be over, to reach Iceland, phone home and tell Shara all was OK. I had not spoken to her since Tuesday night, and this was almost Friday night. I knew she would be getting desperate, with no contact for so long.

  Every word w
as an effort, as I spoke slowly and deliberately:

  My God, this has been intense. We have been through so much together. Everyone is tired, and nothing works. The SAT phone and radio are dead. We have been through hell, and are coming out the other side. I think it was Churchill who said: ‘When you go through hell . . . keep walking.’

  That’s what these guys have done. I’m so proud of them. They’re just normal guys, but they have been put in these terrible conditions, and they have come through with real courage. They are not professional explorers or adventurers. They have normal jobs, and will go back to them and no one will have any idea of what they have been through. ‘Good summer, Nige?’ they’ll probably ask him back at work! But these guys have been bloody brilliant. Quiet, brave, terrified, yet even cheerful . . . in short, just bloody brilliant.

  I turned back to Nige. He had opened his eyes and was looking a bit better.

  ‘Nige, you’re not getting too cold, are you?’ I shouted from behind my visor, above the roar of the engine. ‘Can you move your fingers and toes all right?’

  ‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘My toes have been numb since the Labrador.’

  This wasn’t good. The sardine tin was not the best place to hold a detailed medical conversation, but it transpired that Nige had experienced no feeling in his fingers or toes since the first storm, on our way over to Greenland. He had had no time to recover in Nanortalik, and his condition was deteriorating.

  ‘Bear, what do you think is wrong?’ he got around to asking me a few days later.

  ‘It sounds like you’ve got frostnip,’ I replied. ‘It’s not as bad as frostbite, but it’s still pretty horrible.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nige, ‘and how long does it usually take to get better?’

  ‘Well,’ I replied, pausing because I knew this was going to be a bad one, ‘usually for ever. It rarely gets much better.’