Finding My Virginity: The New Autobiography

by Richard Branson

  Driving a vehicle into the water, amphibious or not, is the oddest sensation. It’s completely counterintuitive to every driving instinct and lesson you’ve ever had. For all the power of the Aquada’s engine, I drove it into the water tentatively, half expecting to see seawater beginning to seep in. But, to my relief, the inside of the vehicle remained dry.

  “It’s working!” I shouted in delight, and pressed down on the accelerator. Within a matter of seconds, I heard the whirr of the car’s wheels retracting and the boat began to shoot forward. At that moment, with perfect timing, a Virgin Atlantic Airbus jet completed a flyover low above us. Our anniversary was celebrated: now all I had to do was claim the record.

  As Dover and its white cliffs disappeared in the rearview mirror, I was enjoying myself. The previous record for crossing the Channel in such a vehicle had stood since the 1960s at six hours. But with the Aquada having a top speed on the water of 30 mph, I was confident we could smash that, especially as the howling wind was behind us. In sea mode, the car’s accelerator worked as a throttle, and it was surprisingly smooth to ride—even if it did come down with an almighty splash as you hit a big wave.

  About halfway across we got into the heart of the Channel’s busy shipping lanes. Here, the water was choppier, a situation not helped by the close proximity of boatloads of reporters. As I watched the ferries go by, I could see the great ripples they were causing, and the waves heading in our direction. I gripped the steering wheel, braced myself and—SMACK!—the waves whooshed straight over the top of us. I was absolutely soaked—but somehow the car was still afloat and we were able to continue speeding toward our destination.

  Before I knew it Calais was in sight. As we got closer, the dots on the beach became people, and I could see the town’s mayor at the head of a group of reporters and well-wishers. To applause, I steered the Aquada onto a ramp on the beach.

  “It was absolutely flawless,” I told the press. “I wasn’t worried about sinking for a moment,” I fibbed, still dripping wet and looking the worse for wear in my soggy James Bond dinner jacket.

  The journey had taken just one hour, forty minutes and six seconds, beating the previous record by over four hours. It’s a record that, at the time of writing, still holds: a decade later, the then presenters of Top Gear decided to pick up the gauntlet and try to beat my world record. Jeremy Clarkson, James May and Richard Hammond built their own amphibious vehicle—essentially a souped-up pickup truck that just about floated—and began the hazardous journey across the Channel. As they teetered along dangerously somewhere between England and France, the Coast Guard intercepted them, flying overhead and demanding an explanation.

  “Our intentions are to go across the Channel faster than ‘Beardy’ Branson!” replied Clarkson at full volume. But despite the Coast Guard wishing them “bon voyage” they made it across the Channel a few hours outside my record time.

  I’d loved driving the Aquada and agreed to be the first customer, preparing to cough up about £75,000 for the car. I had visions of driving it around the British Virgin Islands reefs, hopping between Necker and Moskito islands. But then the company mysteriously took it off the market, straight after our record-breaking crossing. Interest was at an all-time high, and no explanation was given. I presumed there must be a major technical or financial problem, as the company just seemed to disappear. Then, eight years later in February 2012, all became clear. I picked up the Metro newspaper and saw photos of a “high-speed Amphitruck” making “a splash on the Potomac River in Washington DC. The quirky military vehicle travels at speeds of up to 30 mph and can go from water to land at the touch of a button.” It wasn’t just Jeremy Clarkson who had been watching our world-record attempt with interest: the US military had seen the success of the crossing and bought up the rights to the Aquada immediately.

  —

  At the same time as the Amphitruck was making its public debut, my mind was back on the English Channel, thinking about another way of crossing it to add to my list of world records. As well as the amphibious crossing, I also hold records for an assortment of different challenges, including the First Pacific Crossing by Hot-air Balloon, the First Transatlantic Crossing by Hot-air Balloon, the Fastest Crossing of the Atlantic in a Boat, the Most Followers on LinkedIn and, rather bizarrely, the Richest Reality TV Presenter! In 2012, Sam and I hatched a plan to break three Guinness World Records in one day by kitesurfing across the English Channel with family and friends. We wanted to achieve the largest group crossing; Sam had his heart set on becoming the fastest person across, while I planned to become the oldest person to do so. The record for Sam to beat was two and a half hours, while the group had to beat four hours. As for me, I just had to make it across in one piece!

  Over the years, kitesurfing has become something of an obsession for me. I first learned to kitesurf in the very early days of the sport’s development. I was taught here on Necker, back when it was lethally dangerous and you felt you could be pulled for 100 feet or so underwater or dragged across the beach. You just had two strings attached to a kite, and you had to pray you didn’t hit anything. I survived without too many injuries and have been hooked ever since. It gets me away from everything, clears my mind, and when I come back I’m completely refreshed and ready for the challenges of the day. Alongside tennis, it’s my favorite sport in the world, as many more people are beginning to agree. Wind permitting, I always fit in a kitesurfing session every day on Necker, sometimes just for twenty minutes, but often for a long, five-hour kite across to Anegada and back.

  The sport also provides ample opportunities for me to put a smile on people’s faces—including my own. One day I was getting ready to go kitesurfing when Denni Parkinson, a delightful South African model, came up to me with a very unusual request. Her boyfriend, the photographer Stephane Gautronneau, said he wanted to capture a particular picture, and asked if I would take Denni kitesurfing on my back.

  “Would you mind,” Denni asked, “if I didn’t wear any clothes?”

  I was a little taken aback for a second, but replied: “Certainly, as a British knight I would be happy to be of service. I never turn down a damsel in distress.”

  By the time we were kitesurfing back toward the beach there was quite a crowd . . . including my wife. As I was coming in, I just caught Joan’s expression—even from the other end of the beach, I think I could see her wry smile whilst making a face.

  “Typical Richard!” she laughed, and walked back up to the house.

  Since then, three lovely women and I have broken the Guinness World Record for the most people on a kite at one time: another record to add to those attempted across the English Channel.

  By comparison to the amphibious car crossing, the French authorities were less supportive of our world record attempt. We were told that our kitesurf attempt was illegal on health and safety grounds.

  “Ask forgiveness, not permission,” I told the group as we prepared for an early-morning departure before they could catch us. We gathered on the beach just after dawn, all dressed as pirates to add to the feeling we were on a swashbuckling journey against the odds. I looked at Sam as we got our kites ready on the sand.

  “See you on the other side.” He smiled.

  “Not if I see you first,” I said. “I’m going to give you a real run for your money.”

  I was confident, maybe not of beating Sam, but certainly of keeping up with the leaders. I just hoped the winds didn’t blow us too far off course. Two years earlier we’d had to abandon a similar attempt to mark my sixtieth birthday halfway across, when we fell foul of terrible weather.

  This time was just as tough, but Sam got off to a great start. I had chosen too small a kite, which just wasn’t responding. Just before the halfway mark of the thirty-mile trip, my kite fell out of the sky and I had to abandon my board. While I was left bobbing in the sea, waiting for a support boat to pick me up, Sam and some of the group
steamed on ahead to achieve the fastest crossing, shaving twelve minutes off the record with a time of two hours and eighteen minutes. On top of that, nine of the group made it over—another world record in the bag for the family.

  I was delighted for them, but also determined not to let the side down. The next morning, as the rest of the group recovered, I headed back to the beach with Charlie Smith, who used to run water sports on Necker and now works for Larry Page. This time, just the two of us would attempt the reverse journey, from England to France.

  As we entered the water the wind direction and speed kept fluctuating, making kitesurfing very challenging. The waves were enormous and 40-mph winds shook through our bones. To make matters worse, the wind finally settled directly behind us, which was the last thing I wanted. I had trained on a kite in every type of weather except downwind situations—now I had to cross the English Channel downwind in heavy waves. Again and again, my board was swept away from me, as the wind was going in the opposite direction to the tide: Charlie had a tracking device on, which showed I crashed 110 times during the journey.

  I was fortunate to have Charlie with me, an exceptional kiter and good friend who worked unbelievably hard that day. As I was thrown underwater repeatedly, the temperature was dropping and the warm waters of the British Virgin Islands felt a million miles away. I must admit I kept looking at the support boat and came close to stopping. But I didn’t want to let Charlie or anybody else down—plus I wanted that world record. As we approached the busiest shipping lane in the world, I prayed I wouldn’t lose my board in front of a ship. We sank into the water and waited for a really fast boat to pass, then followed in its wake, just making it across before the next one came along. I was completely and utterly exhausted.

  After what felt like days, but was actually less than four hours, the French coast was finally in sight. I got a burst of speed as we reached the shallows and I allowed myself a smile—one that soon disappeared as we reached the beach. There was no victory party this time, just a helicopter full of angry French policemen circling overhead, with what looked like machine guns. The waves were crashing onto the beach with such force that there was no way we could swim back to the support boats—we had to land. I was shivering with cold as we stepped onto the beach, but managed to say “Allo Allo!” as the policemen marched over, angrily telling us our crossing had been illegal.

  “I thought anybody could swim in the sea?” I argued.

  As we stood there shivering, the gendarmes remained locked in conversation on their phones, deciding what to do with us.

  “Can you just take us to the cells so we can warm up for the night?” I asked, only half joking.

  Thankfully we were so sorry looking they took pity on us. “I assure you, Monsieur Branson, the food is far superior in our restaurants than in our prisons!” They gave us a very firm warning never to do it again.

  “I can assure you,” I said, “I have no intention of another attempt.”

  After drying off, we found one of those nice restaurants they had mentioned. I didn’t really mind what we ate, as long as it was hot. I had got my record as the oldest person to cross the Channel on a kiteboard, and felt even more admiration for Sam and the family for getting across in record time: it had taken me three hours and forty-five minutes to kiteboard from Dymchurch in Kent, to Wimereux in northern France. As we sat eating some hearty soup, I reflected on how wonderful it was for the family to have set three world records in two days, and how lucky I was not to have been arrested!

  CHAPTER 14

  Steve

  Pushing the limits of flying and stretching the technology to take us into space offers those who take part in remarkable, never-to-be-forgotten experiences. But those rewards come with a risk attached, and in the mid-nineties I was devastated to lose several heroic men in two separate accidents.

  In February 2005, I’d turned my attention away from Virgin Galactic and back to the project that had led to us working with Burt Rutan—the Virgin Atlantic GlobalFlyer. I traveled down to Salinas in Kansas and was met by a crowd of thousands on a freezing landing strip, looking up at the majestic plane. As Steve Fossett and I stood on the runway, I took a moment to marvel at the sheer strangeness of what we had built. The GlobalFlyer had a single jet engine above a short casing in the middle, with the tiny cockpit in front of it. Steve would have a few feet of space to sit in while he flew around the world without stopping. To either side he could see twin tail booms mounted, making up a thirty-five-meter wingspan, with every part of the plane built with ultra-lightweight material. If we could pull this off, it could revolutionize the way planes were built, and save massively on CO2 emissions.

  As Steve got into the cockpit I jumped into a chase plane to follow his progress from the air and held my breath for the big takeoff. Steve expertly guided the plane off the runway and it flew magnificently from the get-go. It was exhilarating flying behind, watching this unique machine zip through the air in front of us. I was already envisaging converting this technology to our commercial jets in the future. But then the GlobalFlyer began to lose lots of fuel very quickly; next the GPS system faltered. I was nervous, I have to confess, but had full confidence in Steve’s ability at the controls. He was extraordinarily calm under pressure, as he had shown on countless other adventures, including becoming the first person to fly a helium balloon around the world solo. Even so, it was alarming when I could no longer follow Steve’s progress in the chase plane. When it got to the morning of 1 March, I had to stop in Toronto to launch Virgin Mobile Canada, and was dumped onto the tarmac at the airport as Steve flew off overhead.

  Back in the Mojave Desert, Burt and his team were frantically calculating whether the Virgin Atlantic GlobalFlyer had enough fuel to continue the challenge. The wind was playing in our favor; if the jet stream remained strong, Steve could still make it. Nearly three days after he left, with almost no sleep, no respite and no landings, he glided back onto the tarmac in Salinas. He had set a world record for the longest nonstop flight in history: 26,389.3 miles in sixty-seven hours.

  Boeing and Airbus were quickly in touch and visited Scaled’s factory to see how they had developed the aircraft. They were astounded that a plane built out of carbon-composite material could fly around the world nonstop, using less fuel per hour than a four-wheel truck. They set about developing their own versions and now planes like the Airbus A350 and Boeing 787 are largely made of carbon-composite material. Years later Virgin Atlantic ended up buying them from both companies. This is saving incredible quantities of CO2 being pumped into the air, and giving airlines big cost savings to pass on to passengers. Steve went on to complete two more world record-breaking flights in the Virgin Atlantic GlobalFlyer, which were among an amazing 116 records he set in five different sports. I joked with him that he was making me look bad. “You’re on track to break the record for the most records broken, Steve. Slow down, I’ve always had my eye on that record!”

  But Steve’s record-breaking triumphs were soon followed by tragedy. A year later, he disappeared while flying over the Great Basin Desert in Nevada. I was distraught and hoped against hope he was alive. We helped coordinate efforts to find him, praying that such a hardy adventurer could have somehow survived. But as hard as we looked, there was no sign of my friend. When the Civil Air Patrol called off their search on 2 October 2007 after a month with no breakthrough, we continued the search using Google Earth’s new satellite imagery technology. Sadly, there was to be no miracle. On 29 September 2008, a hiker found Steve’s identification cards in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California and remains matching Steve’s DNA were later recovered. It’s strange how adventurers often die doing something relatively mundane, rather than when they are pushing the limit. Just as T. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) died on a motorbike in England, rather than fighting in the Middle East, Steve died flying a normal plane, not while chasing the land-speed record. When you know the dangers, are traine
d for them and are fully focused, you are usually ready to deal with them. Mistakes can often happen in less dangerous situations.

  I had lost one of my finest friends. I went to Steve’s memorial service and sat between Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, who both placed Steve among the world’s great adventurers. It was only a few years earlier that Steve had been a commodities broker. He had gone on to inspire millions with his achievements. So many people I have loved and admired have died pursuing what they love. The only comfort is, sadly, just that. One of my last memories of Steve was the inimitable way he delivered the Virgin Atlantic GlobalFlyer to the Smithsonian Institution’s permanent collection, after we retired the revolutionary aircraft. Rather than have somebody else handle the logistics, Steve piloted the plane himself, sweeping low over the building as onlookers gazed on in wonder, before he taxied it right to the front door.

  There will only ever be one Steve Fossett.

  —

  At the same time as Steve had been breaking records with the GlobalFlyer, Virgin Galactic was starting to take shape. We signed a historic deal for Scaled Composites to design, build and test the world’s first private spaceship for commercial passenger service. If I weigh up everything I have ever taken on, this is the biggest task, and if we can pull it off, it will be my proudest achievement.

  We had licensed SpaceShipOne’s XPRIZE-winning technology from Paul Allen, and agreed to have Scaled Composites build our new eight-seater spaceship and mothership. Now the first step was recruiting our own team to begin building the Virgin Galactic brand, too. In July 2005, Burt and I traveled to the EAA Oshkosh air show in Wisconsin, to announce the formation of The Spaceship Company. This new aerospace production business was established to eventually manufacture Virgin Galactic’s future launch aircraft, spaceships and support equipment. Onstage, I spoke about the unique opportunity of demonstrating the commercial viability of manned space exploration. Offstage, I wandered around shaking hands and hearing from fellow space enthusiasts, a giddy grin wide across my face. We were going to develop the world’s first commercial, passenger-carrying spaceline.