Authors: Bear Grylls
The realities of what had been going on back home the previous long day, when we were out of contact for so long, were just starting to sink in. I felt terrible, and a bit guilty. But we had
been lucky all round: lucky to have survived that storm and lucky that the rescue had been called off in time.
We had been let off the hook twice, once in the Labrador Sea and once off Iceland, and now we had to make certain we were safe. I was determined that we would not take any more risks on the two
legs that remained, the first from Iceland to the Faroe Islands, and then from the Faroe Islands to the northern tip of Scotland.
Nobody wanted any more heroics.
We had slipped through the net twice, and we had been mightily humbled.
That day, as the white, flaky skin on my fingers was slowly beginning to regain a more familiar colour and texture, I slipped away to my hotel room, and spoke into my Dictaphone . . .
The others are still talking downstairs, and we have been in Iceland for nearly twenty-four hours now. We’re slowly becoming human again. We’re starting to hear
other things apart from the diesel engine, and we all had these very vivid dreams last night. It’s almost as if each of us is processing everything in our minds: the shock of what we
experienced out there and the fact that we all felt a very real and genuine fear of dying.
I really want this to be over now. There is a kind of urge inside of me – to complete this properly, safely. I just want to get home. I don’t want to put my crew through that kind
of terror ever again. I don’t want to look at Charlie, sitting in the deck-chair, his face literally white with fear, as if the spirit had been sucked out of him. I don’t want to see
the expression that spread across Nige’s face when he saw the barometer plunge so dramatically. I don’t want to have to find the reserves I somehow found when Mick and I helmed
through the night.
It has been too intense and too exhausting.
We need a rest now and, when our minds are clear, we can plan these last two legs. One thing is certain: I’m not going out in bad weather or a head sea. I’m not gambling again. I
want good weather and a following sea and, if we have to wait to get it, then so be it.
Everyone feels the same. Unless it is 100 per cent clear, wild horses would not get us back on that boat.
Once again, we were touched by the hospitality and generosity of the local people. Even people we met in the bars seemed to have been following our progress on the Icelandic TV news bulletins.
Charlie was eager for conversation and, as he pointed out eleven times in one hour, ‘My God, these Icelandic women are beautiful.’ These words were invariably followed by: ‘Excuse
me? Hello . . . yes, I was the cameraman on board that boat, you know.’ He was in heaven.
This paradise was slightly clouded though by the fact that our days in Iceland coincided with the Gay Pride Festival in town. The sight of us five, fresh off the boat, laughing, hugging and
joking our way through the beers did rather limit the guys’ chances with the ladies. As far as they were concerned we were quite plainly just five more Icelandic queens.
During our stay in Iceland, one man was more hospitable and generous than anyone before: a local boating enthusiast called Bogi Baldursson. He had not only read the news pieces but had even
contacted our base in the UK and offered to help – with anything. Bogi took three days off work and virtually adopted us during our stay in Reykjavik.
‘Bogi, we need help with this alternator.’
‘No worries. A mate of my brother owns a big garage. I’ll take you there.’
And he did.
Bogi also told us that we all looked terrible, white and exhausted. Thanks, Bogi, I thought. So he insisted that we should take a trip out to a natural springs spa, where Icelanders strip down
to their undies and relax in the pure waters. Charlie remembered the calibre of the girls he had seen the night before and didn’t need much encouragement to come along. But things looked less
promising in that department when we were joined by a friend of Bogi’s called Omar, who was physically vast and evidently well built in all areas. And it was with him that we would be sharing
the spring. Ah.
On the drive back to Reykjavik, we were all talking.
‘Bogi, some of our kit is still wet. The hotel staff are going nuts with it all everywhere. Do you know somewhere where we can get it dry?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Omar can do it. He has a very big facility.’
I prodded Nige in the ribs, and neither of us could breathe for the next half hour.
Back at the hotel, we got serious again and started to address the real issue of getting the weather forecast right for the next leg: another 500 nautical miles through to the Faroe Islands. Our
task was made easier by the fact that we would now be passing through comprehensively charted waters, where the availability of data meant the forecast was more accurate than the
‘guestimates’ we had been relying on in the Denmark Strait.
The guys at the Fleet Weather Centre were correct when they said Force Seven winds were running in this area at the moment. We could sit and watch the rain and wind beating at the windows. They
also said it was because the high-pressure system was still settled over Britain, pushing more of these lows up to the north. They suggested conditions should improve later in the week and that,
all going well, we would be able to get on our way by then.
Mick and I visited the Icelandic weather centre just outside of the city, and came back with the same picture of bad conditions at the moment, improving on Wednesday or Thursday.
Our third source of information to confirm this forecast was Mike Town; almost down to the last detail, he produced the same predictions as the two fully equipped, professional weather centres.
If only the data from the previous two legs had been as consistent as now, but it had been almost impossible to predict the conditions on remote, distant oceans with 100 per cent accuracy. We had
always known this was one of the major risks involved in the expedition, but Mike had done a professional and dedicated job for us. He had always given his assessment of the weather patterns
diligently and cautiously. We had been very lucky to have him there for us, day and night.
‘Right, guys,’ I told the crew, relieved that for once I was not having to tell them we would be leaving at 5 a.m. the following day, ‘it looks as if we have until Wednesday to
get the boat right.’ Each of them looked as though I had just placed a golden nugget in their hands.
The
Arnold and Son Explorer
was a mess: the electrics were down, there was water and diesel all over the place, and she looked as if squatters had been camping in her for a month.
Charlie and Nige set about the minor repairs, and Andy spent almost an entire day trying to resolve the electrical problem. His assessment was that when we had crashed down off a huge wave, the
batteries had been thrown upwards and shorted on the aluminium. In due course, the boat-builders would hardly believe this – they had never known the actual stern of the boat to be lifted and
thrown so violently by a wave as to catapult the batteries loose from their housing, but then not many of them had seen what happens to an RIB in a storm in the Denmark Strait. The fact that the
batteries had been so dramatically dislodged offered a fair indication of just what the seas had thrown at us out there.
The result of this ‘short’ was that we had lost our entire 12V system, bringing down all communications. It could so easily have affected the engine management system as well, but in
this respect, yet again, we had been lucky; it was as simple as that.
The more we examined the boat, the more we realized just how fortunate we had been. It was the strange sixth element of luck that no one can ever quite put a finger on – but we all knew it
had played a huge part in what had happened so far.
With the help of Bogi and his mates, who were kind enough to open their garage out of hours and make sure all our batteries were fully charged, we got the electrical system up and running again.
By dusk, the guys were still sorting out the kit and finishing some final minor repairs around the lockers and console but the RIB was slowly starting to look herself again.
While we were down on the quay, we met a round-the-world sailor, a Frenchman called Frédéric, who had just pulled into port from Scandinavia. He was preparing to cross to Greenland
and was awaiting a break in the weather.
‘What’s it like out there?’ he asked nervously.
‘Oh, it can be a little bumpy at times,’ Mick replied nonchalantly. Charlie shook his head, smiling.
We also met some of the crew of a large ice-going maritime research ship, the
Oreanos
, which had just made the same crossing from Greenland as we had, but about twenty-four hours later.
They also said conditions had been horrendous, and told how the waves had been coming over their bridge. I looked up at their bridge: it was 35 feet up from the water.
I glanced across at Mick, and he glanced back at me. We had been let through by the skin of our teeth this time, but the sea doesn’t always let you win.
We were looking forward now, though: we were going home. The unsettled weather had moved on, and after double-checking the forecast we agreed we would leave early on Wednesday morning.
Our last evening in Reykjavik was spent in the company of Ulruga Olassi, a mountaineer who had become the first Icelander to reach the summit of Everest three years before. He had read about our
expedition and asked if he could come and have a look around the boat. In his late thirties, he was smart and kind-faced, and he obviously understood what we had been through. Both Everest and the
big oceans make similar demands: they require heart, humility and a bit of luck to survive.
‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘why did you decide to make the crossing from Canada to Scotland? Isn’t this against the current? It would have been easier the other way
round.’
I explained that to be heading home, with each wave and each mouthful of seawater, was what really counted. I had always wanted us to be homeward bound.
He smiled, and understood.
To err on the side of caution, we had decided to include a refuelling stopover at the Vestmann Islands en route to the Faroes. These isolated patches of land out in the sea, some 80 miles from
Reykjavik, would give us another opportunity to check the latest weather forecast, make sure we were clear to go, and ensure we completed this final stretch without any drama.
I didn’t want any mistakes at this late stage. The highest mountains in the world are strewn with bodies of climbers who reach the summit but die on the descent, and so many war memorials
list the names of soldiers who survived the main war only to die in the last few skirmishes.
We had to see this through. Properly.
Just before we left Reykjavik that final morning, I was tracked down on my mobile by Alex Rayner, our PR man, and minutes later, outside the hotel lobby, I was on the phone doing a live radio
piece back to the BBC. In the interview, I was saying we hoped the weather would at last be kind to us.
‘Yes . . . we can hear the Arctic winds howling behind you,’ the presenter said dramatically. He seemed a little surprised when I explained that the noise he heard was actually
Reykjavik rush-hour traffic on the main road behind me. It wasn’t quite the blast of icy winds he had hoped for!
Our last act in Iceland was to take Bogi and his young son, also, by good coincidence, named Bear, out on the boat for a quick spin around the harbour. This was to say thank you, and they both
loved it. We would soon meet Bogi again, when he made a surprise visit to London to attend our homecoming party at St Katharine Docks. All the team’s faces lit up when they saw him again. He
had become a friend, and Nige couldn’t resist asking how ‘Omar’s big facility’ was doing. Bogi laughed.
Throughout the expedition,
every day of departure had brought its own sense of tension, and the time for leaving Iceland was no different. The guys were quieter, and
there were fewer jokes as we all focused our minds on getting everything ready. Now and then, someone would look up at the sky, just a little nervously, as if checking the weather one last
time.
Part foreboding at what lay ahead, part excitement, part relief that we would soon be moving ever nearer home – these times were always special. There was a special atmosphere and, to be
honest, they were almost the moments I loved the most. Just the team, all together, at work.
It was a few minutes after seven o’clock on a calm morning when we slipped our mooring in the Icelandic capital’s harbour.
Light on fuel, because the Vestmann Islands were so nearby, we began to power through the gentle seas at 21 knots, which was a welcome change from the 12 knots we usually managed when we were
heavy with diesel at the start of a new leg.
I reached for the Dictaphone, and spoke . . .
Everything is rock ’n’ roll now. The boat is working well, and everything seems more waterproof in the lockers. Little things, like the problem of the drinking
water that used to fizz out of the jerry cans inside the cubbyhole with all the slamming, have been solved. We are learning and getting better all the time.
I’m just praying this weather holds. I have such a strong memory of leaving Prince Christiansen Sound, and how beautiful and calm the sea was for twelve hours, and how it all turned so
dramatically different after that. And it happened so fast. I’m a bit tentative about the ‘good forecast’ now and I sense the same hesitation in everyone else.
We’re passing huge cliffs around southern Iceland, and we have a steady following sea. This is so good. I hope it stays like this. We’re getting there. Come on!
Arriving in the Vestmann Islands, we found a stunning natural harbour surrounded by deep, lush, green grass that looked as if it had been glued to the dramatic, sheer cliffs. There was the usual
stench of fish and there was an array of large fishing boats along the jetty. These boats were all tough and hardy, and proud, and they looked as though they were used to working in these ruthless
and demanding northerly seas.