CHAPTER 6: DAN OVERBOARD!

CHAPTER 6

DAN OVERBOARD!

‘I told myself to stay calm. Nothing would come from panic. This is when the reality hit me, smashed me between the eyes: “You will never find him.”’

Our early start wasn’t a pleasant experience. It was very cold (surprise, surprise) and getting ready to venture out – dressing, feeding, packing – seemed to take a long time. But eventually we were ready and we slid through the floating kelp towards the open sea. As soon as we were away from the shelter of the shoreside rocks, we found ourselves heading into a lapping chop, with the wind coming from dead ahead. This wasn’t pleasant either; I remember this as one of those paddles where the view from the shore did not reflect the reality of what it felt like to be in a kayak out at sea … a strange sensation.

The first five kilometres were pure hell, and I battled to keep us on the water. Dan was still struggling with his paddling. Eventually I asked him to stop paddling altogether. It was rough, but I wanted to get us across as soon as possible and not waste a good day on the water, and it was part of Dan’s learning curve.

Then came a moment that I can see, with hindsight, was when Dan decided to dig in his heels. He was going to rebel. I must have touched on a sore point.

He blankly refused to respond to any of my requests to put the paddle in front of him. He concentrated his energy on abusing me with foul language and insults. He swore at me, telling me numerous times that he was tired of me bullying him.

Again I was astounded, but this time also insulted. I had never disrespected Dan or personally abused him in any way. I was furious. I stopped paddling immediately. I took out my phone and called Bradley. We were turning around. I had never seen Dan this disrespectful. I couldn’t believe this was the same kind, smiling and meek-mannered guy I thought I knew.

I didn’t say a word as we got out of the boat. I just apologised to the team, who I knew would be frustrated at the wasted effort that had been put in. We would have to try again the next day. I would have a lot to think about that night.

I went straight to bed, while Dan, Bradley and the crew socialised for the rest of the day and into the night. I’m sure the day’s events and my discussion with Dan came up once or twice.

It can’t be that complicated, Riaan. Simplify it back to basics, take the emotion out of it, and get on with your job. It’s that simple. My little voice was putting me to sleep with the best advice.

It was time for a one-on-one. I asked Dan if he was willing to hear honesty from me. I was nervous but relaxed – angst and calm all in one.

‘Dan, do you think you try hard enough?’ I started.

Dan kept quiet.

‘Do you think you are showing the commitment that you and I have spoken about so many times?’

‘I am trying!’ was his reply. I knew, though, that Dan was not trying hard enough or we would not be having this tension. I reminded him again that I expected nothing physical from him; all I expected was that he make the effort of putting the paddle in front of him – something that I was asking on average 500 times a day.

‘Has anyone ever pressurised you to perform, without excuses?’ was what I wanted to know. It was important for me, because it could tell a lot about his reaction to tough love.

‘Yip, many people.’ he said. ‘Bob especially, man. You have no idea how hard Bob has been on me. Sometimes brutal.’ Although I believed his brother was hard on Dan, I was not sure that any of his circle of friends had ever had to be as honest as I was going to be with him.

‘I know it’s hard being disabled, Dan, but what I think you really need to address is your willingness to be lazy. Everything gets done for you. Everyone is too scared to treat you as an equal when it comes to responsibility. I’m sorry it sounds harsh, but, Dan, I believe you are lazy and that you are like that because you get away with it.’

Dan kept quiet for a while, and then told me he didn’t want to speak any more.

I felt I had been brave to approach him on this level. It was tough, as I felt I had risked hurting his feelings. But two things were for sure: firstly, I was being honest, and, secondly, my advice could literally change his way of seeing his life.

The next day was ideal, weather-wise, and our second attempt, like the first, started well. But again the good times didn’t last, and I had to make a huge effort in very dangerous winds to get us to Bjarnarey. Why is it called ‘bear island’? Probably because polar bears had been seen there in the past. Bjarnarey has lots of vegetation and is richly fertilised by the many thousands of birds that nest there. From time to time, I had been told, it had been inhabited; as early as 1703, two families had eked out a living on the island, and local people had continued to come here to fish, collect eggs and catch birds until the late 20th century.

But right now the island’s only ‘inhabitant’ was the unmanned lighthouse, which had been built in 1917 and renovated in 1946. I had the key to its accommodation hut in my pocket so that we could spend the night in relative comfort.

I was stuffed, both physically and emotionally, from the previous day’s turn-around paddle. I wasn’t keen on dealing with two people’s mental weaknesses. But I had seen far tougher things in my life. I was going to make this work, no matter what.

The crew were taking some strain over Dan’s and my issues ‘on water’. It was unfair to them, so I had tried to make as much available to them as possible. Cooked in Africa were still not contributing financially, while my budget was under pressure. I told Bradley to make sure the crew were fed well and stayed in the most comfortable places I could afford. He agreed that this would help.

I remained almost wordless with Dan from the start of this paddle. The previous night, I had decided to work through this: less emotion, more going through the motions. I believed the best day, weather-wise, had also just arrived and would set the scene for reconciliation. I was hopeful.

But, on the contrary, Dan had now prepared himself. He had watched the previous day’s footage with the crew and had also discussed the scenario with them. He felt he understood the reality of our situation. Dan started his conversation when the cameras had been turned off. He asked me whether I believed I was here to learn things from him, and also why all the focus of growth as an individual had to be on him. We were paddling well together that day, oddly enough.

Of course I should learn from him, he said. Not for a second did he acknowledge the fact that I had been only patient and supportive. I had never doubted him and had never given up on him. Instead, we were now discussing Riaan Manser’s personal growth with Dan Skinstad around Iceland, instead of dealing with Dan’s disrespect and inability to make us safer in dangerous seas. I had to explain that I was humble enough to want to learn something on this journey with him. His laziness and lack of respect were familiar by now. It was a crazy scenario, but Dan was a shrewd and thoughtful strategist. He was not going to be cornered.

It was unfair of him, but I kept quiet. I was not going to get into an argument. Instead, I tried to be positive. I made a huge effort in very dangerous winds to get us to the island. The crossing went better than most of our earlier paddles, but now, at the gulley between Bjarnarey and the Kollumuli headland, we could barely make two kilometres an hour. I aimed for a small inlet, with a boulder-laden beach, that I hoped would shelter us. The surf was small, and was breaking on golf-ball-sized rocks. First I helped Dan to safety, next secured the kayak, and then began searching for the hut that would give us shelter for the next few hours. We were tired and needed rest.

I moved Dan to a sheltered area out of the wind before I set off to investigate the island. The hut was next to the lighthouse, but I had problems with the door key, which was rusted into the lock. The door hadn’t been opened for nearly nine months, and I almost snapped the key into the lock as I tried to turn it. My back was cramping and my body shivering in the -2 °C chill. I tried a few tricks, but it took me an hour to get the door open. Then I ran the few hundred metres over uneven, moss-covered lava fields, dodging panicked puffins, to get back to Dan and begin the job of getting him safely to the hut. I had to help him up a slope, but felt he could move himself slowly across the uneven terrain if he was careful. I know others would not have left him to do it alone. I ran back to the kayak and began unloading our clothing and food so I could get us warm and fed. Dan slowly made his way over the rocks, while I carried the bags alongside him. It was an adventure of its own to get to the hut.

Once inside, I made us coffee and soup. Then I made sure Dan had a dry change of clothes and helped him get comfy in one of the bunk beds.

We slept for four hours and awoke with the idea of crossing Héraðsflói Bay, whose broad expanse was lined with a beach of black sand. This was not to be, though, as a headwind had picked up. The only option was now to tuck inside the northwesterly corner of this grand bay. I believed the landing would be safe, as the swell was not too big.

The black beach landscape was surreal. The beaches of Héraðsflói were formed from deposits of lava debris carried by the numerous glacial rivers. These silt deposits have created a huge delta of shallow streams and marshland. In fact, the bay itself is becoming smaller each year due to the constant deposition of lava debris. The crew had driven ahead to the eastern corner of the bay, where they came across what they thought was a beached humpback whale. Apparently whale strandings are common in the bay because of the inflow of debris.

Two days of rest, including getting caught up on the never-ending admin, settled me tremendously. Dan and I were not speaking that much, unless the matter was crucial. I wanted this to change, and when I had the first opportunity to speak to Dan alone I used it to have another heart to heart. I wanted him to tell me how he felt, and I hoped to get across to him what I was feeling. I also sensed that the crew were antagonistic towards me because of my perceived impatience. I hoped Dan would notice this and, off his own bat, nip it in the bud. It could get very dangerous for us as a team if the crew sided with one or the other of us.

Dan explained to me that he was happy but wanted more encouragement. I asked him not to lose focus on what needed to be done. I could see he was sulky, and I didn’t want him to feel sorry for himself instead of acting brave and taking responsibility for his failings. We also agreed that he would address the crew, that night at dinner, to explain that I wasn’t being unfairly harsh on him and that he wanted to be given a chance to do things on his own. Dan agreed with me that this would be far better coming from him. Unfortunately, at dinner the vibe from the crew was too jovial for a serious chat like this. I suggested we try another time, but I shouldn’t have backed out. We needed to clear the air.

The following morning was special for me in that, for the first time, I really let go of the negative emotions I had inside me. The winding drive over a snow-laden mountain pass was exhilarating. Bradley had some music on his iPod that I had listened to while on my Africa circumnavigation. It was by Hillsong Church in London. The songs have deep meaning and are, above all, about humility. I sat in the front passenger seat and cried while this profound feeling of relief came over me. One song that was playing, ‘This is for You’, speaks about a person doing everything they do for God. It reinforced the belief that nothing I have, talent-wise, have I earned. I’m undeserving. It reawakened that gratitude in me. I needed to allow Dan space to grow and space for me to forgive. It was difficult, as I sat there, to wipe away the tears without being seen by Bradley or Tracey. I really felt refreshed and, more so, at peace. Dan was handicapped and I wasn’t; I had to remind myself of that. He needed all my support and all the love he could get. Reconciliation was within me and was in my hands.

I put my arm around Dan when we arrived at the launch site – he had got there before me – and told him I was eager to make this journey work and eager to see him succeed. ‘Let’s start afresh’ was my commitment to him.

It was an exciting paddle across Héraðsflói Bay. I didn’t know how strongly the rivers were flowing out to sea, and so, to play it safe, we headed parallel to the coast for the first 10 kilometres and took drift readings every two kilometres. This way I could estimate the direction in which it would be most effective to paddle. At one stage, we found ourselves paddling into a current running strongly at four kilometres per hour. I worried that we might encounter whirlpools created by the clashing of the tide and the river. The upside would be that, as we neared the easterly side of the bay, we could almost be assured of the current assisting us. Once we rounded Kogur lighthouse, the stunning fjord scenery offered glimpses of what we could expect later in the journey. The inlet of Borgarfjörður pierced the aggressively rising mountain to form a bay, which had low-level clouds hovering in it. The snowcapped peaks were so neat as to be almost cartoon-like. It had been a long day, but I had so much spirit in me that I sprinted the last five kilometres of the 40 kilometres we did that day. Dan was very tired, so I told him not to paddle those last few kilometres as I was feeling great. The boat was moving at 12 kilometres per hour at times, so I definitely was combining mental vigour with physical strength.

Bradley had found a shallow rocky inlet around Landsendi Point, five kilometres north of Bakkagerði. The crew were in high spirits, and had hung the Riaan Manser Adventure banner across a section of low cliffs. It really moved me to see that, and I felt appreciated, big time. Dan knew he hadn’t put in a big effort, and even apologised to me at the end. I didn’t care. I felt new and free of the stress we had built up over the last few weeks. I hoped the positive affirmation would help. I never, ever spoke about Dan failing on the water to anyone, or even to the cameras. I believed he noticed that, if I ever had reason to take something up with him, I would do it in private.

By now the ice was melting, and I can remember for the first time taking serious note of how much more of the land one could see. Bakkagerði was small, and its 100 or so inhabitants were mainly involved in fishing and a bit of tourism. The place was still sleepy because of the time of year. We stayed in some unfinished flats that were just left open for us, without any follow-up or supervision. It showed either incredible trust or, if you want to be negative, naivety on the part of the locals. Bradley had caused a stir in a previous town because he hadn’t yet paid our accommodation bill. I was afraid that, with his schedule and movements and the landowners’ lack of availability, we might build up a bad reputation in Iceland. We still had a long way to go and I wanted only good words to precede us.

Dan was very excited. He knew that his father and brother Andy were arriving the next day for a visit. In a way, I was jealous. Having a family to share your successes with must be amazing. That feeling of making someone proud – someone who loves you unconditionally – must be unparalleled. The high I was on, and Dan’s eagerness to see his family, combined perfectly to make me believe we could take on the gale-force tailwinds expected the next day.

We had now covered 318 kilometres and were one seventh of the way around Iceland. But actually we had covered a lot more than that, since we were more or less following the very uneven coastline and being swept about by the ocean swell. Our big hope was that, with winter nearing its end, paddling conditions would improve. But painful experience had already taught us that Iceland’s weather was not something you bet on.

It was just as well that our expectations weren’t too high. Sure enough, the waves that had looked so deceptively small from the shore proved to be much larger and more difficult to handle. But the wind behaved itself, and Dan and I were working well, so we made good progress. After about three hours, we had pretty much covered the allotted distance, and when we came abreast of the team I called to Bradley: ‘Watch us closely, we’re moving our arses, baby!’

We were making such good time that I decided now to push on around the Glettingsnes headland for another 24 kilometres or so to Seyðisfjörður, at the head of a fjord also called Seyðisfjörður. Like most human habitations in Iceland, it had ancient roots, although the present town, with its 660 or so citizens, is quite young by Icelandic standards: it was settled and built by Norwegian fishermen only in 1848, but traces of earlier settlement go back to the 9th century.

Isolated and thinly populated though it is, the area has had its moments. From 1864 to 1866 the world’s first industrial whaling station operated near the town. The first telegraph cable between Iceland and Europe reached Seyðisfjörður in 1906, and for half a century it was an important part of the world’s telecommunications network. During the Second World War, there was an Allied air base here, traces of which remain to this day, among them the old landing strip and a tanker that was bombed and sunk in the fjord, where it is still visited by wreck-divers. When the local fish-processing plant closed down, Seyðisfjörður reinvented itself as a tourist destination, although it remained a well-equipped fishing port.

As we paddled towards Seyðisfjörður, the team left us to get on with it and headed inland to Akureyri airport to meet Dan’s father and brother Andy, who had tackled the long haul from Cape Town to visit their family adventurer. Having dropped them off at a guesthouse in Bakkagerði, Bradley returned to the team’s main job of supporting the paddlers.

Bradley’s plan was to go to the tiny settlement of Húsavík (not the same place as our starting point), which he calculated we should be nearing … except that we weren’t. Unbeknown to Bradley and the rest of the team – not to mention the newly arrived Skinstad family members – what we were actually doing was trying to work our way through the worst crisis we had encountered so far.

We had made a cold and windy start. The wind was slightly side-on from our left, but I calculated it would swing to our backs 15 kilometres into the day. We had to be tough and determined for the first two hours, and then we would reap what I believed would be a huge reward: a very strong tailwind and accompanying swell.

Man alive, it was tough going. I was in a determined mood and remember telling Dan that we had our work cut out for us. It was another 40-kilometre day, this time in dangerous seas. We would be skirting the most isolated and the most dangerous coastline we had been pitted against to date. I knew we were in for adventure after the first few kilometres. The mist was so thick that I could not see land for long periods. I navigated mainly by using the swell direction and the sound of the waves crashing into the cliffs to our right.

All good maps of Iceland maps show the locations of rescue huts for shipwrecked sailors. These huts are dotted along the coast. Never had I taken such note of them mentally as I did on this day’s journey. Usually I photocopy and memorise the day’s planned coastline, with as much detail to support it as possible. This information provides what I believe is the crux of saving your life in time of need: ‘options’. I knew the positions of all the little coves where rescue huts were situated, as well as how the weather factored into the geography. Not one of the crew, and neither Bradley nor Dan, understood the risk we were taking today. Not that I expected them to, but there definitely is something to be said for sharing the load and responsibility. If anything went wrong, no one, but no one, would be able to save us. All the factors needed for drama were here: thick mist, freezing temperatures and gale-force winds. Never mind that we were in a five-metre kayak and that Dan has cerebral palsy. Adventure doesn’t come any purer. Dan, I think, was now mixing his determination, his bravery, with the ingredient I have often relied on the most: naivety.

I still needed Dan to listen to me when it came to putting the paddle in front of him, and not at his side. This created 99% of our balance issues. I was a strong paddler and could take the physical responsibility, but the never-ending wobbling in rough seas gnawed away at me physically and mentally, hour after hour after hour. Again, I started out gently in the way I asked Dan to put the paddle in front of him, but after a few hundred requests it was wearing away at my positivity again. Even though the conditions were stressful, I knew my resolve had to endure.

The sea had now become so rough, with the wind gusting at 70 kilometres per hour from the north, that turning back was impossible. As we neared the Glettingsnes lighthouse, though, I did mull over the idea a few times. Turning in a southerly direction, I thought that our going would get significantly easier. It didn’t. Our average speed had increased to over 12 kilometres per hour, but Dan with his paddle at his side threw us off balance numerous times. I countered as best I could, but eventually, while we were surfing a big wave for a hundred metres or so, we capsized.

It was a furious impact, as we were going at quite a speed. In such conditions, the frigid water rocks your senses, almost freezing your hands and brain. I grabbed the boat firmly, and then lunged forward with my right hand to get a grip on Dan, who was trying to right himself in his air-filled dry suit. The nose of the boat was drifting more quickly than the tail, putting us in a favourable parallel position to the wind and swell. I reminded Dan not to let go of the boat, no matter what. We had practised this drill many times. We both needed to get back on, and first needed to round the respective front and rear points. I moved quickly around my side with the goal of stabilising the boat for Dan to get in. We were both getting cold at this stage. Dan was moving slowly, but doing well. By the time I had hauled myself onto the kayak and was seated, he had made it to the nose, and was about to turn around it onto the windward side. I reminded Dan again not to let go of the boat. I didn’t mind how long he took. Just never let go of the boat. Never. It was his security and his safety. Without the boat, we would drift aimlessly and die.

‘Take your time. Just don’t let go of the boat,’ I shouted into the wind.

Dan’s eyes were wide with what I presume to be many emotions: fear, anxiety and panic. Never mind the -2 °C temperature. I was feeling the same. He now had to do what was probably the most difficult part of getting into his seat: rounding the nose of the boat in these choppy conditions. He negotiated this precarious position in one movement, and reached the windward side of the kayak. All he needed now was to move slowly along this side to his seat, a maximum of two metres. The wind still gusting strongly from his back.

I started with ‘Remember to hold …’, but couldn’t finish my sentence.

Dan let go of the boat.

It was unbelievable. He drifted away so quickly. One metre became five, and then five metres became 20. I went into panic mode immediately, and acted with instinct and aggressive determination. The situation demanded it. Every second meant more distance between us.

To the average person, the simple solution would be this: paddle the boat to Dan and pick him up. It was not that simple, though. I had to get the kayak paddle ready and keep myself stable in the harsh winds. Dan’s paddle was on its leash and trapped under the kayak. It would very difficult to get it out of the water and to secure it somewhere on the boat. I had to solve this before any thought of paddling could begin – while not losing sight of Dan.

‘You’ll be OK. Stay calm. I will come get you,’ I shouted loudly to reassure him. I was screaming because it seemed so noisy around us. It probably wasn’t. My heart was beating furiously.

Once I had my legs in the cockpit, I realised just what was in store for me. The nose of the kayak was pointing upward. With my weight pushing down the rear, it meant that the nose was above the waterline, catching the wind like a sail. Dan had now moved even further away from me. I knew the worst thing that could happen was for me to lose sight of him.

Dan was about 50 metres to my diagonal left; there were high cliffs at my back and white seas ahead and all around. I stepped as hard as I could on the left rudder pedal, hoping to swing the kayak nose left and to face both the wind and Dan. I didn’t believe it was a futile effort at the time, but I can remember thinking how the rudder was too small to turn the kayak in those winds. I thought at one stage that the rudder cable was going to snap, because my left foot was applying so much force. But the kayak, even with this effort, managed to stay only perpendicular to the wind. I was not even making a slight left-hand turn. In Madagascar, I had used the original technique of kayak steering that Johan Loots had taught me, that of leaning the boat, or rather tilting it, with your hips. If you tilt to the left, you will turn right. And vice versa, of course. I attempted this, too. It didn’t work.

‘I’m coming to get you now. Stay calm. I’ll get you now!’ I screamed in Dan’s direction, doing my best to keep him reassured. At this point, I did not feel confident about keeping this promise. I couldn’t even turn the kayak in his direction, for goodness’ sake! Having spent an interminable two minutes paddling away from Dan, I now realised the 50 metres had become 150 metres. I glanced back over my left shoulder now every five strokes to keep him in sight. It was non-negotiable in my mind: keep him in sight.

And then I lost sight of him.

That was when the pain I felt in my shoulders and back turned to pain in my stomach. Keeping him in sight was all you had to do, Riaan. Nothing else. Fucken stupid idiot. You’re an idiot. Fucken idiot, I kept saying firmly to myself. I normally don’t even curse. I couldn’t help it then.

It was decision time. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t turn the kayak into the wind. It was impossible. Not that I had tried it before on a double kayak, in such conditions. But I had an idea, a brain surge, to attempt something that made the smallest bit of sense to me then. If what I needed was to turn the kayak around, then I needed to make this priority number one. Forget everything else.

Turn right and go with the wind and sea, gain momentum, and as you surf one wave use that burst of speed to throw the nose as hard as possible into the oncoming wind. With the momentum so created, I believed that the weight of the boat – if one wanted to employ simple physics out here in the Norwegian Sea – would almost double the brute force it produced. Would this work?

I was now doing the unimaginable. Taking a hundred steps back (away from Dan) hopefully to take a few forward? I ran fast with the wind and the swell, all the time the voice in my head reminding me that if I capsized now I would be in even bigger trouble. I was scared. Still talking to myself and giving myself constant but harsh motivation, I did what I didn’t think I could do: I turned the boat around. I think, in hindsight, that the wave I managed to ride down acted as a shield, holding off the wind just enough for the nose to swing to windward.

My hands were burning with cold, almost frozen in position. I had no time to put my mitts back on. I shortened my paddle stroke so the wind would not catch the paddle blades, and it also upped my rhythm. Geez, I was moving slowly. Amid the spray and mist I could see nothing but a grey expanse in front of me and the faint outline of the cliffs to my left, no more than a kilometre or so away.

I probably looked and sounded calm as I spoke to myself, asking what I was going to do now. I had no visuals of Dan, and no sound bearings from him either. I convinced myself that, taking our approximate capsize spot into consideration, I was generally moving into the right area.

Just stay focused and calm like you always do, I said to myself.

When I’ve been in difficult seas before, I’ve been fortunate enough always to get sight of something that would assist me in getting a bearing. In this case, I just wanted to spot Dan. I scanned from right to left in a 30- to 40-degree scope, so as not to rush my eyes over the sea and to remain balanced.

It felt like forever, each stroke and breath lasting an eternity. I told myself to stay calm. Nothing would come from panic. This is when the reality hit me, smashed me between the eyes: You will never find him. You’re trying to stay alive yourself. How do you think you’ll help someone else?

I continued, grimly, in the same vein: Originally when Dan fell out, you could search for him in a 50-metre by 50-metre area. Just by the few turns and distances you have gone, you will be searching for him in an area of more than a square kilometre! You don’t even know where you are, idiot!

The only geographical reference I had at that moment was the spot where we had capsized, which I estimated to be one and a half kilometres from the cliffs. And that was a thumb-suck. It was crazy!

Do you know what you are going to be doing tonight? What are you going to say tonight? I knew I was going to have to tell Dan’s family that I had lost him at sea and that he would not be coming home alive. I knew, without doubt, that this was the fact. I was so nauseous; I wanted to vomit my guts out as I began to absorb this reality.

Who are you going call, Riaan? Who will be the best person to break the news to? Not his mom, no ways. I could never. I don’t know Andy that well, nor his dad. I’ll have to call Bob. That was my logic at that moment. I was numb inside, my body on the exterior fighting with all it had just to keep crawling forward. I could not believe this day was happening. This could not be real.

Then, as bipolar as I think I can be at the best of times, my mind took another line of thought: Riaan, you will paddle until you cannot any more; you will paddle until you find Dan or until you die. Bottom line: it’s not over. You will keep paddling and looking.

And I did just that for a little while longer, scanning the sea to the front right-hand side of me. Then, as if a light flashed, I noticed the yellow of Dan’s dry suit about 400 metres away to my right. I caught the bright yellow in my peripheral view, and, even though at first I thought I had imagined it, I kept my eyes trained on the area. Geezlike, it is him. He came up again with one swell, and then again a few seconds later with another.

I shouted as loud as I could, but there was no way he could hear me.

I cannot tell you how the tears welled up in my eyes with relief. It wasn’t a done deal yet, but I had 100% more hope/chance than I had had 15 seconds before. If I could just keep Dan in sight, we both might make it.

The challenge, besides the obvious ones of paddling and balancing in the wind, was to choose the right time to turn the kayak nose from parallel to perpendicular to the wind. Once I made that choice, I would not be able to head upwind again. I had no strength for that. Once I had paddled near enough to Dan, I would have to stop some 20 metres upwind of him, throw my legs out for stability, and hope that the drift and the wind would miraculously bring us together.

Dan was drifting in what looked like a comfortable position on his back. His dry suit had plenty of air inside and had created sufficient buoyancy for him. What I was surprised to see was that he had done what I think was the last thing he heard from me: he had lifted his hands out of the water. Dan didn’t look too stressed. Hands in the air, lying on his back, he looked as though he were patiently waiting for me to pick him up.

I chose a spot to stop paddling, about 15 metres upwind. I threw my legs over the side and waited to see what would happen. If the nose of the kayak did not pass within 50 centimetres of Dan, he would never be able to reach it. We needed luck. And we got it, too. The kayak drifted straight into Dan, hitting him hard in the chest and startling him somewhat.

‘Hold on, hold on hold on!!!’ I was shouting.

This time he did. He pulled himself to the windward side of the boat, and I leaned forward to grip the back of his life jacket. I summoned the last drop of adrenaline I had in my body and pulled him in. He lunged and made it back to where I wanted him – safe and sound.

If you think this is where I told Dan how proud I was of him, you are wrong. I screamed at him with all the strength I could muster. Something about him never, ever, ever doing that to me again. I was drained.

The biggest reality of this journey had just set in. Riaan Manser the fool knew nothing about doing. All Riaan Manser did was talk about how he had Dan’s life on his shoulders. Things changed that day, though.

Eventually we came into a pocket of cellphone reception and I got hold of Bradley. By this time we had overshot our designated landing place by about a kilometre. On shore, this created another problem for Bradley, given the team’s difficulties in just getting down to the beach. But our luck turned, and we finally made it ashore, very cold, very shaken, very alone … but very alive. That was what counted.

Bradley booked us in at a local guesthouse and set off to fetch the Skinstads. An hour and a half later, he returned with them. It was a good end to a near-disastrous day. I reckoned it was just the moment when Dan needed his family: now that we were safe on shore, the reality of what could have happened began to sink in. He said it very well himself when the team turned the camera on him: ‘It’s a very sobering and very frightening thought to think, you know, that they might have been here two minutes after I was gone, and it would have been an absolute catastrophe.’

We took a day off, partly to rest up after that misadventure and partly to give Dan some time with his father and brother, who would soon have to return to South Africa. I knew that, with the best will in the world, they would find it very hard to comprehend fully what it was like to be paddling a very small kayak on a very large ocean, and an extremely hostile one at that.