Bear Grylls

by Bear Grylls

  It was perfect. We could hang out our kit, drink cups of tea, and doze on the floor.

  We ate well in the local bar, made the necessary phone calls to the base team and the weather centre and, before long, the five of us were settling down for a few hours’ sleep in the sailing club’s small upstairs room.

  Within moments of the light going out, Charlie was snoring.

  ‘I’m not sure which is worse,’ Nige muttered in the darkness, lying awake on the floor, ‘Charlie’s nostrils or the roar of a 450-horsepower Caterpillar engine.’

  He had a point.

  13. SAFE IN SCOTLAND

  We are the Pilgrims, Master; we shall go

  Always a little bit further; it may be

  Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,

  Across that angry or that glimmering sea.

  Special Air Service regimental verse

  It was strange. I had spent most of the past few weeks doing everything possible within my grasp to reach the final destination of this expedition safely, and yet, now that we were only 275 miles from the north coast of Scotland, I found myself feeling almost sad that the end was so near.

  We woke just before 3 a.m. and I became aware that we were probably pulling on all our kit and dry-suits for the last time. I looked around. The crew were quiet.

  ‘OK, guys, I need your concentration for twelve more hours,’ I told everyone as we stood in the cold night air, preparing to slip our mooring on the quayside for the last time. ‘Twelve more hours, that’s all. Let’s just keep this boat pointing due south, steer a good course and make sure we don’t make any stupid mistakes. If we just stay focused and do what we do so well together, then we will reach Scotland.’

  We all knew what needed to be done.

  ‘One last effort,’ said Mick quietly.

  There was a relief in us all, waiting just on the other side of the door. We were so close to achieving our target. But there was also a sense of loss that the spirit that had carried us through so many dangerous situations could not last for ever.

  Of course, the five of us would stay in touch and see one another whenever we could, and we would regularly look back and laugh, and feel proud of what we had done; yet the reality was that as soon as we touched British soil, the precious magic we all felt so intensely would begin to disappear.

  That is just how it is.

  ‘I’d love to helm this first bit, if that’s all right?’ Charlie asked. The night was glorious, and he took the wheel.

  There was scarcely a breath of wind on the water, and the moon was reflected on the still harbour water around us. We untied the ropes and quietly left the Faroes.

  We had decided to leave at 3 a.m. because the early departure meant we would reach Scotland in daylight, and therefore would actually be able to see the end of our expedition. Which would be nice!

  In fact, we had originally planned to leave even earlier but Force Six and Seven winds had been blowing through the area to our south and our meteorologist, Mike Town, suggested we should wait until they had passed. We hoped they now had. Still determined to minimize any risks, we waited until the hour he suggested.

  The few flickering lights of Thorshavn, the small town in the Faroes, were soon receding into the distance. We were yet again leaving behind people who had been incredibly kind and generous. What was it about these maritime communities that always made their reception of us so warm? It had become such a feature of this expedition: arriving in isolated communities as total strangers, and leaving as friends.

  While we had been refuelling the previous evening, people had approached the boat freely, chatting, many of them just wanting to touch the tubes and wish us well; and in Thorshavn, as in so many other remote places we had been, they had wished us ‘calm seas and God’s speed’.

  But above everything, they all seemed to have time . . . time for us, time for themselves, time just to be.

  That is what I hunger for: space, the time just to sit and be. The freedom from the rush, the little moments, the ones that we so often overlook and miss, even forget exist.

  In supposedly more developed parts of the world, we have so little patience. We want it all, and we want it now. We rush from one thing to the next. We have no time for what really matters, and our lives become a blur. How often do I struggle to remember what I did yesterday, let alone last week? That’s terrible, really.

  ‘So are you busy at the moment?’ We hear it the whole time, as if to be busy is something we should strive for. A friendly everyday question, but it speaks volumes. I think we are all so busy that we lose touch with who we really are.

  ‘The heart of a man is like deep water,’ I once read. No wonder so many of us struggle with our identity. We are too busy to find it, too busy to listen to those deep waters.

  Those men and women in Labrador who told us to stay in port had tried to warn us and protect us from the northerly winds we eventually ran into. But we had rushed ahead.

  Perhaps I should have listened more.

  On two occasions on the expedition, in St Mary’s and then again in Nanortalik, we had rushed, and so nearly fallen.

  We were powering ahead by the time dawn burst over the eastern horizon, reaching 22 knots in a following sea. It was just before 5 a.m. We were homeward bound and gradually starting to believe we would make it. I took the Dictaphone and carefully made my way to the foredeck . . .

  It’s all looking fine. The forecasters predicted a following sea and good conditions, and that’s what we have got. High winds have passed through this area now and all that remains are the cresting, driving waves behind us – the remnants of that bad weather. And the boat feels alive. She has been amazing. She feels somehow stronger now, as if forged by the wild seas to our north, so far behind us. I don’t want to leave her. She did everything we ever asked of her, and I can’t stop remembering that night at the start of the Boat Show back in January, where on my own I stroked her hull and prayed we would come through this together.

  And she has never faltered.

  I’m sitting at the bow of the boat, on my own, and the sun is shining more strongly than at any other stage of the expedition. The sea is rolling with us, and the boat is eating it up.

  The guys have been brilliant as well. I think it’s very rare to ask four mates to risk their lives alongside you for no reward except the bonds you create together in the hard times. To see those same men come up with the sort of courage and quiet fortitude I saw in them during those two terrifying storms is special. They have truly impressed me. They have risked everything over the past few weeks, and they have all over-delivered, and proved themselves stronger than I reckon they ever knew. That’s a good thing to discover.

  I received a message last night saying that I have been asked to appear on David Frost’s Sunday-morning programme this week, but, as I sit here now, that kind of thing seems a million miles away. To be honest, I would prefer to be here with these guys, away from the bright lights of that weird world.

  Deep down, all of us are dying to see Scotland. It’s all we ever talk about.

  My hour at the helm followed soon afterwards, and for most of the time my eyes seemed to dart from the seas ahead to the dial that indicated the number of nautical miles remaining on the leg, and I was lucky enough to be watching the dial when it ticked down from 100 to 99 miles. Charlie took the helm after me, and he seemed to be making good progress when Nige leaned forward and stared intently at the small screen on the console. The small arrow indicated the direction in which we were moving, and it was pointing 180 degrees the wrong way.

  ‘Charlie, where are you going?’ Nige asked.

  No reply.

  ‘Scotland is that way,’ Nige said, pointing at the stern behind him, laughing out loud.

  Charlie quickly realized his error and swung the helm around. He had been away in his own world for a few minutes and had lost concentration.

  ‘Did you leave something behind?’ Nige teased.

&
nbsp; ‘Yeah, those Icelandic girls,’ Charlie replied, chuckling. ‘I can’t get them out of my head.’

  We were so close to home that even travelling in the wrong direction only made us laugh. ‘How far to go?’ I asked.

  ‘Sixty-one miles,’ Nige replied. ‘Sorry, sixty-two now.’ Charlie hit him.

  An hour later, Mick was helming. Andy was asleep and Scotland was getting ever closer, but still remained out of sight. We should see it soon, I thought to myself.

  Everyone else was quiet.

  Then suddenly, as if from nowhere, I heard that terrible, fateful sound. I knew what was happening. The engine was dying, the revs were plummeting, the throttle was no longer responding to Mick’s acceleration.

  Within seconds, we were silent.

  No, God, not this close, please no, I said to myself. Please.

  Then I thought, no, it’s all right. We’ll be OK. It will be the fuel again. We can sort this. All we need to do is switch to another tank and get the engine going again. It should be easy. Shouldn’t it?

  Andy leaped into the engine bay and set to work.

  Five minutes passed.

  I glanced at Mick. He was beginning to look anxious. The process shouldn’t take this long.

  Eight minutes. Andy had switched the tanks over and had tried to reprime, but the engine wasn’t responding.

  We were still bobbing helplessly.

  Ten minutes.

  My mind was racing: How could we survive the Labrador Sea and cross the Denmark Strait in a storm, and then fail in this gentle following sea, just short of home? It must work. Come on.

  Andy was working frantically. I said nothing.

  Another turn of the key, still no splutter of life.

  Twelve minutes.

  Then, once more, a final turn of the key, a spark, a splutter, another splutter . . . a roar, a fantastic surge of power. We had movement again.

  ‘Just keeping you all on your toes.’ Andy smiled.

  We all were grinning, so relieved.

  The miles started to fly by. Adrenalin was pulsing through us as we all gathered in the bows, with Nige helming, our eyes glued on the horizon. We couldn’t quite comprehend that we were about to see the mountains of north Scotland. This moment had been so long in coming.

  It was 2.20 p.m. when we finally spotted the distant purple outline of the mountains, dead ahead. We were still 33 miles from land, but the end was literally within sight.

  This was the moment to phone Shara.

  She had initially planned to travel north and meet us in Scotland, but moving Jesse when he was still so young and just getting settled seemed crazy. I had told her to stay at her mum’s. It meant we would only have to wait a day longer to see each other again. In any case, I knew we would be so busy in Scotland, doing the press stuff and sorting out the boat. I was happy to wait another twenty-four hours and see them both in earnest at Gatwick airport. I had waited so long and travelled so far. I wanted our reunion to be perfect.

  She answered on the second ring.

  ‘We can see Scotland, my love,’ I told her, struggling to hold my emotions, ‘dead ahead, getting clearer as we speak. I can see Ben Loyal. You know, the mountain I dragged you up when we first met, and everyone else got vertigo. Remember? It’s on our nose, straight ahead. I cannot wait to see you, my angel. I told you we would be OK, didn’t I?’

  I could hear the relief in her voice when she said gently, ‘My God, this has been a bad one.’

  I looked up at Ben Loyal ahead. It seemed to be watching us, willing us on. There was magic in the air.

  The plan had always been to arrive in Scotland in this small estuary, near to the lodge belonging to an old friend of Shara’s and mine.

  Sam Sykes and his family lived in a small, remote part of Sutherland, on the north coast, at a place called Kinloch. Shara and I had met there, many years ago, at New Year. It was one of the best days I can remember. I had been staying up there with Sam, training and climbing. It was two months before the Everest expedition in 1998, and I had everything apart from girls on my mind.

  I was climbing every day, pushing myself, preparing myself mentally and physically for the months ahead in the Himalayas. I was very solitary and focused, and probably a bit of a nightmare. Then this girl called Shara walked in, dressed in a tatty red coat, and life has never been the same.

  Together, we made up silly dances, kissed in the woods and fell asleep on the sofa in our boots, with my big duffel coat over us. Kinloch would always be special to us both.

  I had planned with Sam to have just a small band of family, friends and sponsors meet us ‘unofficially’ a few miles off Kinloch in his boat. We would then come in and spend a night at his lodge before heading back out the following morning and cruising along the coast to John O’Groats for the official homecoming.

  To me, however, there was only ever going to be one real homecoming and that was our arrival here in Kinloch, with the five of us in the bows, staring ahead, gaze fixed, straining to see the outlying shadow of Rabbit Island at the mouth of the Kinloch estuary.

  However, the plan wasn’t quite going so smoothly at Sam’s end. The two guys from Arnold and Son, Eric and Jean-Marie, were delayed in transit from Zurich to Inverness. Despite a mad dash in a small hired car that apparently resembled a scene from the film Trains, Planes and Automobiles, with these two smart Swiss businessmen racing like rally drivers along the narrow Scottish lanes, they couldn’t reach this remote corner of Scotland in time to get aboard Sam’s boat and meet us at sea.

  So it was Chloë, Charlie’s father, James Laing, Alex Rayner, Jamie Curtis, a cameraman, and Lorraine, Andy’s girlfriend, who clambered aboard Sam’s boat and ventured out, earnestly searching for us through the haze of rolling Scottish waves.

  Linking up wasn’t straightforward. For some time they couldn’t see us, and we couldn’t see them. Radio contact was intermittent and poor.

  Eventually, Chloë spotted some spray on the horizon, and as we drew nearer, they saw what they hoped would be our small yellow boat on the horizon. Then radio contact became clearer and we heard Sam’s voice over the intercom.

  ‘I think we can see you,’ he shouted excitedly.

  The boat was dipping between the troughs of the waves, rolling in towards them. They waved frantically. We still couldn’t see them. And then we could. A small blue dot to starboard. We came back on the radio and they heard our voice for the first time:

  ‘This is the Arnold and Son Explorer to Sam – we have you in sight, we’re coming home.’

  We circled their boat, waving madly. Sam was going berserk, Chloë was shouting and Lorraine was crying. We had done it. We were almost there. Sam escorted us in towards a beautiful, sandy cove, and we drove the RIB up on to the beach. We killed the engine one last time, leaped ashore and hugged everyone, jumping up and down in the surf.

  In the time it had taken for them to escort us in, Eric and Jean-Marie had finally arrived. Just in time. As they pulled up with a skid on the track above the beach, they saw the boat that their vision had made possible pull into the cove.

  When I saw Eric, I ran across the beach to where he was standing. I just wanted to thank him for everything he had done to make this dream happen. However, as I went to hug him, and he squeezed me, my dry-suit released a stench of stale, unwashed body odour from my neck seal. It was horrendous, he told me later, laughing.

  Through almost 3,000 miles on the ocean, it had been impossible to maintain any kind of personal hygiene in the RIB, even though, to his credit, Andy was meticulous in brushing his teeth every morning, wherever we were. For the most part, we just lived and slept and did everything in what we wore.

  I hugged Eric again for good measure.

  We then knotted several lengths of rope together so we could secure the RIB safely to the harbour wall, and began swigging from bottles of Mumm champagne. Eric toasted us, Alex toasted us, Andy kissed Lorraine (poor girl!), and the moment was perfect.

 
So, on this quiet Scottish beach, with just a handful of the most important people around us, we celebrated the safe return of our expedition. We had faced the frozen ocean, and we had survived. We were home and alive.

  After a while, we drove up to Sam’s house and threw our kit down in a heap. Then I wandered down to the small brook below his house, where Shara and I had so often swum together. The water was bubbling over the rocks into the pool. I stripped off, stood on the overhanging rock above the pool, and dived in. As I came up for air, I felt the emotion, the strain and the fear of the last two years wash off me. Literally. I couldn’t help smiling. I had been so worried I would not deliver on my promise to Shara and return safely. But we had. I shook the water from my hair, took a deep breath, and went under once more.

  While we had still been in the Faroes, during a telephone conversation Chloë had asked me if there was anything special we would like for dinner on our first night in Kinloch. There could only ever be one thing: roast beef with all the trimmings. And it was duly delivered.

  We ate like kings – in fact, to be more specific, we probably ate like King Henry VIII, gnawing the finest beef off huge bones, laughing at the same old jokes and drinking far too much red wine. It was the best of meals – cosy, intimate and wild.

  As we sat round that table in Scotland, I felt overwhelmed by pride at what we had achieved and enormous gratitude to be surrounded by such truly good people.

  Everyone had their own private feelings on the expedition, drawing their own conclusions from what we had all experienced.

  Charlie reflects:

  Almost the first thing I said to my father when I saw him on the beach in Scotland was that I could hardly believe how five men could have travelled 3,000 miles in this tiny living space, and endured so much pressure and strain, and yet there had not been a single cross word between any of us.

  The expedition was amazing for the bond that developed between us, but I think I most enjoyed the sense of being so alone with the elements. We were travelling in an open, rigid inflatable boat, and, in explaining what we went through, the most significant of those adjectives is certainly ‘open’.