CHAPTER 9: THE ARBITRATOR VS THE SUPPORTER

CHAPTER 9

THE ARBITRATOR VS THE SUPPORTER

‘It was very difficult managing the radio and the cellphone while trying to paddle. If we got it wrong and were caught by bigger waves, then we could be washed up on rocks.’

But now the North Atlantic showed its teeth again. We found ourselves stuck at Höfn again, trapped by monstrously bad sea conditions: just to get into the water would have meant fighting our way through breakers four metres high. I am willing to take a calculated risk, even a dicey one, but I know when I’m beaten.

In addition to fighting the sheer brute power of the sea, we effectively had only one kayak at the moment. If we got hit by one of those waves, even a smaller one, the boat would roll away under us. And it would not simply be a case of us suffering bumps and bruises – the kayak would be broken into several pieces. I was responsible not just for myself but for Dan as well; I had no right to risk his life as well as my own.

My biggest wish was for us to leave Höfn behind us and be on our way – that would be worth a small celebration. After two months, we’d completed only a quarter of the journey, and that put us under severe time pressure. We should have been heading for the finish by now, but we were far behind schedule.

One good thing, though, was that I could go to Reykjavík to fetch Vasti without feeling guilty about wasting paddling time. She deserved a bit of fun. Damn it, she has spent years waiting for me while I knocked around Africa and Madagascar, and so I wanted to give her a special treat.

I was a shell of a man when I drove up to Reykjavík to meet her at the airport. She was coming for a week’s visit. Apart from her supporting me in a very tough time, she was also going to be a part of my third big journey. She had seen, on other occasions, how people and relationships could turn ugly. I think the group’s tense situation made her apprehensive.

Darren and Richard drove me back to the capital and on to Keflavik airport. They were good company; it was good to learn a bit more about them and have them in isolation for a change. I like surprises, and decided to spring one on Vasti. I sent her an SMS to say I had been delayed by a few hours on the road, and that she would have to catch a bus. Darren bought into the idea of catching Vasti off guard at the airport. We hid so well that when she eventually made her appearance and wandered over to the bus ticket counter, she didn’t spot us. I walked quickly up behind her as she stood in the ticket queue, and stood there, just short of uncomfortably near her. She had noticed someone was behind her, but didn’t want to react at once, so she attempted to look as far left as she could to try to get a peripheral view of the person behind her. She paused, smoothly glanced backward, looked me in the eyes, and glanced away as if she didn’t know me. Then she let out a high-pitched shriek of surprise and spun around to face me. Man, I was happy to see her. I needed her desperately.

Darren didn’t miss a second of the action. He had moved as if he were my shadow. People say it’s difficult to put your finger on what makes a cameraman ‘good’. It doesn’t matter how much he knows; what matters is that he can capture the special moments. I was learning plenty from the documentary crew every day.

I had given Vasti the impression that we were going to go straight back to Höfn, but, paradoxical as it may seem, I always have a surprise in mind when I convince her I have none. I was going to hire a helicopter to fly us over Eyjafjallajökull. We would fly right over the volcano’s steaming crater and hopefully land on the adjacent ridge, with views over to the Vestmannaeyjar Islands, as well as of grand old Hekla – the mother of all volcanoes, according to Icelanders.

I told Vasti we had to overnight at the village of Hella because Darren needed to collect a package sent from South Africa. I told her we would probably stay near the hotel that supposedly had the package. She was happy with the arrangement and didn’t see through the surprise. In the morning, we went for breakfast at the Hotel Ranga. Darren, Richard, the hotel reception staff and I were all speaking ‘code’ around Vasti so as to not to arouse her suspicions.

The helicopter eventually landed, with all of us making comments about how great it must be to fly over Iceland in one. We were still waiting for the package, though. The pilot eventually gave the thumbs-up signal for us to board, but I kept Vasti in the dark by telling her that Darren had the package and we would pick him and Richard up later by helicopter.

‘Bring your jacket; you might get cold,’ I said. Vasti’s face lit up with excitement. She didn’t know what was up, but she knew now it had something to do with the helicopter. In the past 11 years I had missed nine of her birthdays. It wasn’t fair. I wanted to surprise her with something special for this birthday. Although I couldn’t really afford the helicopter trip, I made sure we doubled up the opportunity for Darren and Richard to get some aerial footage for the documentary.

The crater of Eyjafjallajökull was 80% intact, but the flow of molten lava had carved out a new valley on the north side. Inside the crater, the main sign of activity was steam billowing out through giant spouts. We landed alongside the volcano, on Mýrdalsjökull Glacier, to take a few photos. We couldn’t stay long up here because it was so cold and the pilot felt the wind was picking up. We then flew down the valley carved out by the Markarfljót River. It was the most amazing natural artwork I have ever seen, the brown streams weaving and intertwining so delicately across the landscape. I could imagine how beautiful the sight would be in spring, with the river swollen by meltwater from the glacier.

Vasti loved the effort I had made, and agreed to sign the 10-year birthday-present-waiver contract I had waiting for her back in the vehicle.

We returned to Höfn, and to business as usual. I made it clear to Vasti that we would continue paddling, no matter what. We could not miss the opportunity to catch up time and distance just because she was there. She understood. We needed to get out of Höfn, which had bad associations for me, and we needed to get as far along the south coast as we could during the short Icelandic summer.

For the first few days, it was as if we had released a tightly wound elastic band. During the time Vasti was there, we managed four days of sea time. We covered more distance in those four days than we had managed in the preceding month. It was mind-boggling.

I think Vasti brought the happiness and the ‘yes’ character back to me. Determination cannot be tested if the environment is receptive and kind. Determination expects action when every other message tells you to stay put. Vasti was fully aware of how I’d been treated by the people around me, but she remained focused on our goal. People who focus on sideshows never attend the grand event. She brought focus back for me, and enthusiasm and focus for the whole team.

Dan, meanwhile, had made use of the break to train on the rowing machine. He was optimistic, or maybe philosophical, about the delay – it was an opportunity, as he put it, ‘to clear my head a little bit’.

Fortunately, we were not paddling that much. Brad had now taken over from Tracey as cameraman, but there were still some staff issues for me to sort out. Tracey is a very good fix-it person. She has guts and determination and an unwillingness to give up. Even though I know she, along with the rest, hated my guts, I wanted to give her a reward of some sort. My original plan had been to bring over a replacement for Bradley and Thor from London. I had some friends who were between jobs and keen to spend a few months in Iceland. They didn’t expect salaries, but only for me to look after them while they were here.

The problem, though, was that Tracey had told me that her fiancé, Chez, could not find work and desperately needed something. I had issues with this, as it would mean introducing a couple into the already-tense group dynamic, and I didn’t really know Chez. But I felt Tracey had too much on her plate. Without her knowing, I called Chez and spoke to him candidly about my worries. What would happen if they argued? What would happen when I got angry with her in front of him? What would happen when she expected him to take her side? Even with the best intentions, I needed to consider these scenarios. He promised he would guarantee this would never be a problem. I asked him if he had a valid passport and how soon he could get his visa. Once we agreed on a salary, I offered him the job, and he accepted. I could hear his joy at the other end of the telephone line. Although it was going to cost me a lot to get him to Iceland, I believed it was the right decision. I really liked Chez once I got to know him; he was honest, reliable and hard-working.

I told Chez to break the news to Tracey that night, which he did. She came up to me while I was sitting having dinner – alone, of course – and whispered that she was very grateful for what I’d done for her. I really hoped she would see how I was rewarding her. I did find it odd, though, that she asked me not to tell the crew about Chez’s impending arrival, as she felt it would create a divide between them and her. It was a huge risk and a massive expense to bring Chez over. I didn’t want to have to spell it out.

Chez was going to do all the manual work that Thor had been responsible for. He would also cook and, as I said to him, ‘be responsible’ for team morale! Chez was going to be perfect for us. Tracey had no more filming responsibilities, and had taken on Bradley’s duties of managing the finances, organising accommodation and planning our paddling. She still had to assist me getting visual PR out to the media. This included a weekly video, which only she could do and which she was actually getting very good at.

Although I felt Tracey was sometimes dramatic in managing stress, I knew she could learn from this opportunity if she employed a positive mindset to confront her challenges. After all, she comes from the distinguished and proven-tough Bruton clan.

It was at this time that Peter Gird arrived, supposedly to try to resolve the problems between Cooked in Africa and me. Peter is a jovial old bear, a big man, gregarious in spirit and awesome to have around. He is incredibly wise and thoughtful, what many would term a father figure. He is calm, level-headed and good with people. I had to be open to what he was coming to try to resolve in Iceland. As I had told Vasti numerous times, I needed him and Justin to support me. I was carrying everything on my shoulders.

Peter was having personal problems at the time, with his younger sister very ill in the United States. He was going on to see her after his visit to us in Iceland. Peter was in a situation no one wants to be in. He told me the doctors did not believe she would make it to the end of the year. It was awful, and I felt for him. His job in Iceland was even more difficult, and I needed to be part of the solution.

My resolve with Peter was, at the outset of his visit, to clear up some concerns that I had. This is something I would never have done previously, as I would rather have avoided the potential conflict by a country mile. It was important for me to explain to Peter, even though he was by far my senior in terms of age and way more experienced, that I needed him to show respect to my leadership and what I’d managed to accomplish thus far. If he was going to have conversations with the crew like Alexis was having with Dan, then it would only make matters worse. He would buy us a meal and a beer or two and then jump on the plane, leaving me with a crowd that still believed what Dan had told them. I didn’t need Peter to fly 20 000 kilometres to reaffirm this, so I hoped he would understand why I needed to meet with him as soon as he landed.

To my surprise, we had a great time, sipping a few beers and joking, while discussing my concerns. I felt that I sincerely conveyed my position, and that he understood the gravity of what I was dealing with. It later turned out that that was exactly what I didn’t achieve – a huge surprise, I can tell you.

Peter spent time with each member of the crew, trying, as I had done in the past myself, to reassure him or her. He made sure to ask all the team members about their individual concerns, what they wanted to see improve, and how we could intervene to assist in making the situation better. I’m sure Peter employed the right strategies with each person as he felt best suited the situation. What he told me he was going to explain to Dan was that Dan, more than at any time before, needed to step up to the plate. Of course, I liked hearing this. I believed Peter understood what the journey was about and would relay the right message to Dan.

Peter had told me about a film he’d made about this extraordinary character who had cerebral palsy, much more severe than Dan’s condition. This guy decided he was going to run as many marathons as he could. He never took short cuts, kept falling, and lost many teeth, but, as any superhero does, he finished every time. I hadn’t seen the documentary, but just listening to Peter tell me the story gave me goose bumps. Peter wanted Dan to see this guy as an inspiration and to make himself a role model in the same mould. It inspired me, so I knew the story would inspire Dan.

Peter’s message to me was that he wanted me to go easier on Dan so we could end the journey the way everyone would love it to end – crowned with success. This wasn’t easy to accept, as the problem with Dan had gone beyond a little squabble over cupcakes. The hurt he had already caused me was deep. I explained to Peter that I would not accept Dan disrespecting me as he had, and would not accept any justification from him for it. Disabled or not, Dan should fall under the same umbrella as any other friend. Was I wrong to expect this from Dan? We always read stuff like ‘See the person, not the disability’, and that is exactly the way I saw Dan. I treated him as I would have treated anyone on that expedition. Disabled or not. I felt that I had earned some respect through my experience and leadership.

Peter had Dan write me a letter explaining how he felt. I was looking forward to receiving it.

The second to last day of Peter’s visit, though, brought a shock and a reality of its own. We were all crammed into the small farmhouse, which had prefab walls and only one toilet. The kitchen was tiny, too, but absorbed our numbers well after each paddling session. Peter and I were basically wrapping up his visit and what he felt could be salvaged from what most people considered a wreck. We chatted about how Dan had responded to his requests. He told me he had been with Dan, and that Dan had taken what he had to say to heart. He told me I was a hero to do what I do and that everyone in South Africa was behind me. He convinced me of this amazing ‘thought’ and I believed him. It made me feel a little bit better. But I didn’t anticipate the conversation we were about to have. It centred on Peter continuing to encourage me to try harder with Dan.

I never planned to write this, but I want to convey the reality of this journey. Peter told me to be patient with Dan. He told me that Dan was not always there. Peter insinuated that Dan was sometimes very absent-minded. As I am probably more absent-minded than Dan, I took what Peter was saying at face value. Peter continued, and then shocked me beyond belief with a very derogatory comment about Dan. I won’t repeat his exact words, but I was deeply shocked.

What Peter said next about Dan reduced me to stunned silence: ‘We all know Dan is …,’ he went on, saying something he thought was quite humorous. His words, combined with his actions, intimated some horrible things about Dan. As I said, I was shocked. This is what he and Justin and the crew and maybe even people back home believed I thought of Dan?

I responded immediately and abruptly, catching him visibly off guard: ‘I’m sorry, Peter. Geezlike, I don’t see Dan in that way and I never have.’

‘What I mean,’ Peter started again, ‘is that he’s just strange sometimes. He talks about the same things all the time. I mean, if I have to hear one more time about his law and his exams and those same stories, I’ll go mad!’ He clearly realised he had said something inappropriate to someone who didn’t share his view. I had never, ever, said anything bad about any of the people involved in the expedition, not one person, even though they had bad things to say about me. If I had anything to say, I would say it directly to the person concerned. Doesn’t this have value in our world any more? Or is it all a social game we play, with everyone aware of the other’s two-faced approach to friendships? It is only with time that people are sifted and separated for who they really are. The real from the fake.

Now, I don’t know where this conversation left our relationship, but I was horrified that Peter would actually say something like that about Dan to me. He saw my response and was now unsure of what he had said. We all say the wrong things now and then and don’t mean it, but this situation, in its broader sense, was different and seemed to explain a few things.

Our meeting ended very uncomfortably, and I went straight to Vasti’s and my room. The room was next to the kitchen, separated from it only by a thin cardboard wall. As I walked into the room, Vasti was sitting waiting for me. She had heard everything.

‘Riaan, I am proud of you for standing your ground with Peter. I heard everything. You know I don’t want to interfere, but I’m telling you this: if he is willing to speak about Dan so derogatorily, imagine what he is saying about you to the others.’ She left it at that.

Vasti was right. But was this going to put us back at square one? No, it wasn’t; I wouldn’t allow it. I was going to forgive Dan and make this journey fun again. I was going to avoid having to test him any more. I would now take the danger of the challenge away. The complications of life and death had created my stress, and had then exacerbated my weakness in communicating it to someone who essentially was only trying his best.

The conversation with Peter gave rise to a few positive things for me. It showed me that Dan is a victim, and that it’s not fair for him to have people around whose motives he cannot trust. I mean, he probably thought I took him on the journey because he is the brother of a former Springbok rugby captain. Nothing could be further from the truth, but perhaps he believed it. The reality is that many people who act sincere and kind in front of him are not in fact motivated by sincerity and kindness.

I needed to soften and employ logic to the problems of ‘our’ world. I am the person I am today because of the experiences that moulded me as a child. Dan is also who he is because of the experiences of his youth. I understood his challenges perhaps better than anyone, and I understood better than anyone how he felt about himself. I hoped that Dan would see the truth eventually. He was targeting the only person who had proven himself – through actions rather than words – to him over and over again.

I was going to do something great for another human being. I would expect nothing in return. This would not change. I would finish what we had started.

At last the weather relented, and on a calm, perfect day we set off from a spot on Austurfjörur, about 10 kilometres from Höfn’s harbour mouth, and pointed our bows towards Skinneyjarhöfði. The team followed us for the first bit, but then had to break away and go around the lagoon at whose seaward end Höfn lay. Conditions remained good and we motored on until we came to the landing place, where the team was waiting for us.

It was only a short paddle, really, but that was because we were planning another night journey, starting at 20h00. I wasn’t looking forward to it. We would have to do about 43 kilometres to get to Skinneyjarhöfði, my back was sore, and at the end of it we’d have to land safely on a rocky and hostile coastline, although Tracey was confident that she had found a suitable place.

I was a little concerned about the launch, because that was always the time when Dan’s disability left him in the lurch. Because of his unresponsive leg muscles, it was difficult for him to stand solidly in the surf. During the first stage of a launch, you have to do things as speedily as possible – get the boat in the water, climb on, drop the rudder down and then overcome the kayak’s inertia. The last-mentioned was not easy because the kayak was so heavy.

What concerned me more was that the kayak had been taking on water, which would have to be removed before we could carry on. We had to take an hour off to fix the leak. This would mean that we would miss the tide, but there was no alternative. Out at sea, any leak was potentially dangerous, and of course we didn’t have a backup. This tide thing was a serious factor. From the beach, the sea looked nice and calm, and so it was. But what you couldn’t see from the beach was the strong tidal flow, and that meant problems for us. I wasn’t going to try anything fancy; I was just going to try to get us out alive.

We got down to fixing the leak. It was positively sweltering – by Icelandic standards, anyway – according to Richard, it was the hottest day since 1947. I decided that the best way of tackling the launch would be for Dan to swim out to just beyond the breakers; I’d meet him there and he would climb on. Dan was game, so that’s what we did.

But, needless to say, it was not as easy as it sounded. As soon as we got in the water, the strong tide started pulling us away from one another; it was just another reminder of the fearful risks we ran every time we launched. But after a considerable struggle we were together again, Dan was on board, and we could get down to the main task of eating up those 40-odd kilometres.

Back on shore, as I found out later from footage shot by the camera crew, an awestruck Tracey watched all this and blurted: ‘I didn’t know it was this tough …’, to which Richard replied: ‘I think you have to be mad to do something like this.’ I’d felt that way myself on more than one occasion.

I calculated that the first leg of the paddle should be to Jökulsárlón, about 23 kilometres away. Conditions were still good, and I hoped they would stay like that. It was now well into what would be the hours of total darkness in South Africa, but behind us the sun hadn’t yet set, and the night sea was quite brightly lit. Quite strange for two good old South African boys like Dan and me.

Dan and I spent the late afternoon and onward, until midnight, paddling in thick mist. (With the sun staying up for 23 hours, we had considerable flexibility, time-wise.) Our first landing place, at Kalfafellstaður, should have been a straightforward, small-surf beach landing. The problem was that we couldn’t see 10 metres ahead. I had no idea where to land safely. I didn’t know if the crashing waves were rolling up a sandy beach or crunching into rocks. Although we’d done only a short distance, the effort had taken its toll, and we were cold and uncomfortable.

Tracey was getting into her new role of selecting landing spots she believed appropriate. It was good to have someone supporting me by checking variables such as weather, wind, swell and, to a lesser extent, tides. It meant that I didn’t have to be consumed by it 24 hours a day. Tracey was still learning, though, and I had to have faith she would pick things up as time went on. The shape of the coast, swell size and, importantly, swell direction would begin to take on a whole new meaning for her. She would see how the combination of a few things could change a calm bay into a thunderous surf crunch zone.

That night, Tracey had said she found a possible landing spot and a route for the vehicles to get close to the shore. We stayed in touch via cellphone. When I eventually made the call to land I wasn’t expecting complications. I got on the phone to Tracey, but she could not confirm the exact spot with the GPS or with the map. I needed this information, as it would save a lot of effort if we could land near the vehicles. The mist was so thick that we had not seen land for the last hour of our paddle. I used my gut feeling to guide us nearer to land, avoiding breaking surf and possible surprises.

I made the call to head for land and try something I hadn’t done before. If Tracey could not find her exact position on the map, then I would try use the signal of the two-way radio as a beacon. In this mist, the reception would be no more than 500 metres in a straight line. If I could get through to Tracey on the radio, it would mean the beach area was no more than a kilometre in length, which was a lot but still manageable.

Bradley had spent a fortune on maps from the Geographical Centre in Reykjavík, and these maps proved their worth that day. Sometimes the smallest detail can present you with a multitude of options. I knew there was a river and a prominent rock on what was essentially a straight beach trending in a southwesterly direction. The increase in swell size, as well as the louder sound of crashing waves, made us sure we were nearing land.

It was very difficult managing the radio and the cellphone while trying to paddle. If we got it wrong and were caught by bigger waves, then we could be washed up on rocks. I got Tracey on the radio, and asked her to shine our powerful Maglite torch out to sea. Dan and I stopped paddling for a while, trying to see the beam from the torch.

Vasti had seen me land my kayak many a time at Gordon’s Bay and Betty’s Bay. She had learnt what constitutes a gap in the surf, as well as the route of least resistance to shore. It was exciting for her and Tracey as they combed the shore, looking for us. But what saved us eventually was the sound of Vasti’s high-pitched call, which squeezed under the mist and coasted along the surface to Dan and me. I turned the kayak in her direction and slowly brought us closer to land. The first landmark, the rock, made its appearance to our left, exactly the area I was aiming for originally. And then the river mouth showed itself too, and we discerned the blurred figures of the crew, Vasti and Peter standing on the shore.

The logical route to land would have been as far as possible from the rock, but, after watching the one-metre surf-break for a while, I settled on the risky option of coming right alongside the huge rock, timing it so that we missed the impact zone, and then gliding into the river mouth. I could hear Tracey saying something on the radio about landing where she was pointing the torch. It wasn’t anywhere near where I had brought us in, but it showed me she was willing to try to make a call. If she weighed up what I had done, she would be better the next time. It isn’t easy if you don’t have experience.

The group was jubilant as we paddled up the river mouth. I think everyone was relieved. We all knew that a landing in these conditions could have turned out differently. We ended up shivering and groping through thick mist. I had just one request for Tracey: ‘Can you get the heaters on in that car, please?’

And so we struggled along. But our tails were up now. Thanks to the calming presence of Vasti and Peter, things were settling down in the team. As Peter said: ‘The moment you start getting down and beating yourself up, it’s going to get worse.’ There was no doubt that kayaking among amazing ice floes, and surviving, did great things for your spirits. Dan and I had argued so much in the past few days, but now he expressed our feeling very well when he said in all sincerity: ‘Thank you, boet, this is a privilege.’