CHAPTER 16: WILD WILD WEST

CHAPTER 16

WILD WILD WEST

‘The weather had turned very bad, with strong winds and sheets of rain that struck horizontally, like volleys of icy bullets.’

Our plan was to head off on exactly the same route we had been following when the rudder broke. We would round the lighthouse at the tip of the Straumnes Peninsula – probably in some tough sea conditions again, four or five hours of slogging into the teeth of the wind – and then find shelter there. Maybe there would be another rescue hut … The rest would let us recover enough to put in a really big distance when the weather finally got better.

That day was like a new start for me. I was holding thumbs that the weather wouldn’t let us down, that I wouldn’t have to bark any orders, that I could just be Riaan Manser and be the friend that I really wanted to be. Dan and I were going to achieve something great, and I wanted to end it on the highest note we could manage. And we were so close now … Just a few days left, hey, I thought. Just a few days and we’re home!

The broken rudder and the effort to get it repaired were in the past. The hut at Aðalvík was bare and cold, but provided enough shelter for us to have a decent eight hours of rest. I prepared what was probably my favourite dinner to date: a mixture of noodles and tuna. It wasn’t up to Michelin standards, perhaps, but it had us both silent for more than half an hour!

Next morning, after a few cups of coffee, we started tracing our original route out of the fjord. As we headed along the coast, Dan’s thoughts were ranging far ahead, all the way to the famous Dusi Canoe Marathon in KwaZulu-Natal.

‘Do you think I could manage the Dusi?’ he asked.

‘It would call for a bit of a practice, Dan, but, of course, yes. Why not?’ I replied.

‘I had an idea a long time ago to do the Dusi on a triple, with Bob and Andy. But can you make three-man boats?’

‘Ja, you can, of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll be you guys’ second,’ I replied enthusiastically.

About 20 kilometres later, this nice-ish day became nasty-ish. Before we began to cross Fljótavik fjord, I had to make a call whether we should aim for the nearest rescue hut or continue on around the peninsula to Hlöðuvík. The wind was 50 kilometres an hour from the front and the sea was as tumultuous as ever. As disappointing as it was, I told Dan we weren’t going to risk it. Our balance was problematic at the best of times, and we could do without a disastrous capsize so near the finish.

Even for a colour-blind guy like me, the rescue hut stood out like a sore thumb. Although it was icy cold inside, there was a primitive paraffin stove. I probably didn’t know how to use it properly, and the hut soon filled with thick smoke. Without a clean flame, we couldn’t cook a warm meal, so I set up our usual gas burner and made some pasta. It filled our bellies and lifted our drained spirits.

It was an uncomfortable night by normal standards, but we were not normal people any more, and for us the hut was cosy enough compared to some of our previous stopovers. As a result, we slept in a little, which was pleasant, but also a bad idea, because we missed the early-morning period when it was calm enough to paddle.

The weather had turned really bad, with strong winds and sheets of rain that struck horizontally, like volleys of icy bullets. Instead of being merely a bit bumpy, the sea was seriously choppy, and it seemed likely we’d also encounter a mist so thick that that we wouldn’t be able to see more than 15 or 20 metres ahead of us. With a schedule as tight as ours, it looked unlikely that we’d reach Húsavík by late August.

I blamed myself again. I was annoyed at my laziness and willingness to find excuses. It had been cold and difficult to sleep, but that was no excuse to lose our window of opportunity. I should have woken up earlier! There was no other choice but to go for it, horrendous weather or not. We were in a bay that looked relatively calm, though the icy wind blowing down the valley at our backs suggested we’d have a tough time out at sea. The trick of judging what is happening out at sea is to compare the horizon when you landed to the horizon when you’re about to leave. I had hoped to use the outgoing tide to our benefit, but I also understood the turbulence that occurs at the ends of peninsulas when the tide is ebbing. In a small kayak, it can feel as though you’re in a washing machine.

It turned out to be as turbulent as I’d expected. I was fired up, and remember telling Dan that the rough water would last for a short time only. I lied to keep us both focused. I had absolutely no idea whether we would succeed; experience was my only yardstick. What did I know about the Westfjords? Only seven kayakers had ever rounded Iceland’s northern tip. Who really understood this part of Iceland?

Pleasant it wasn’t. It was freezing, freezing cold and the sea was dangerously rough. Still, we battled on – we had no alternative. Somewhere ahead there was a rescue hut. My faith in the maps and the old rescue huts they advertised had not been proven wrong. I reckoned that if Dan found it hard to fall asleep tonight I would be amazed. He was struggling a bit; he’d found his form in the past few weeks, but 30 kilometres of wrestling with the sea had exhausted him, both physically and mentally … Not that I was in much better shape. I nagged and exhorted him time after time, and I felt bad about it, but there was no alternative; our situation was just too serious.

After six exhausting hours, we finally discovered the faded rescue hut in a little bay called Hornvík. I apologised to Dan: ‘Ay, my body is very, very sore … You’re a good guy, Dan, and I know you’re trying. Sorry man – I’m sorry I have to shout at you.’

Flip it, this journey really needed to come to an end so that I didn’t have to be ‘this’ guy, doing what I was doing. The journey, with all its responsibilities, was probably the loneliest I have ever been. On my other journeys, I’d gone without human contact for long periods. Here though, the loneliness was more brutal. Everything I did seemed to be for others; simultaneously, everything I did seemed to make these people hate me even more. And they knew no better. That’s lonely.

I hoped that Dan understood in some way. ‘No, I know,’ he would say. ‘I don’t take it personally.’ I hoped Dan would say great things about me. If that was all he did with what I’d done for him, that would be first prize. If he could have the strength of character to rebuke anyone for criticising or insulting me, then this journey would have been worth every tear and every cent.

It was freezing cold at Hornvík as we clambered up the beach. We stumbled around and found the rescue hut. It was empty and cold. I searched further up the valley and found a furnished cabin full of supplies stashed there for the rangers who are the reserve’s inhabitants during the summer months. One of the rangers, whose name was Bjorn, was there, and he wasn’t too happy at our unexpected intrusion into what was essentially his home. Eventually, with gentle persuasion and humility, we won him over. He made us coffee and food – fish balls with rice in a very fatty sauce. It was needed and good. Bjorn also introduced us to his semi-tame companions – three brown Arctic foxes. Fortunately, hunting is illegal in the reserve.

Next morning was coldish, but not excessively so, and our efficient thermal jackets kept us warm. Some of our clothes were wet, so we hung them on the side of the hut to dry. They were only half-dry by the time we had to leave, and it was no fun to climb into those cold garments. I think Dan now realised for the first time the relative luxury we had enjoyed on the journey. To me, though, the hut was a palace, compared with some of the places I’d slept in during my earlier expeditions.

Before leaving, I tried to send a GPS coordinate to the Coast Guard and the team. I was confident it had worked and hoped it would put at ease the people who were expecting us to finish on the specific day. We got going earlier than the previous day. After a grateful farewell to Bjorn, I dragged the kayak over slimy, rotting, metre-thick kelp beds to the sea. We set off for our next landing point, Reykjaförður, about 40 kilometres away. As we left Hornvík, we could see the exact spot where Iceland’s last polar bear, which had drifted on ice all the way from Greenland, had been shot and killed. The previous night Bjorn had reaffirmed something that I could not easily accept: the authorities believed it was best to kill the bear than to spend money on trying to save it. Crazy.

I could feel a deep-seated sense of fatigue as we rounded the tip of the Hornbjarg Peninsula and headed southeastwards. Determination aside, the conditions were really tough. We were not piling up the kilometres as fast as we would have liked, and the heavy physical toll of the past few weeks was getting to us. I had three strategies in mind, involving a short, a medium and a long day. The medium day was the most attractive in that it meant a stopover at the famous hot springs of Reykjaförður. The place is otherwise accessible only by air, so it doesn’t get many visitors.

I was tired, and I think Dan was as well. We took a short break just past the halfway mark, and then got down to paddling the last 18 kilometres. We were really looking forward to indulging ourselves in the hot springs – get ourselves warmed up, get into some warm clothes and creep into our sleeping bags.

But we were doomed to disappointment when we finally dragged ourselves into the bay around 20h00 after a really hellish trip – ‘one hundred per cent tired’, as Dan put it. With the tourist season at an end, the hot springs and guesthouses were all closed. I left Dan on the beach in a sheltered area, and eventually found the baths. We decided to use the changing room as our shelter for the night. The only problem was that it took me almost two hours of running the kilometre back and forth in the freezing cold to bring over our kit. I was hammered, and was acting on autopilot by this point.

We treated ourselves to hot baths before dinner. I made us noodles with dried fish – not the tastiest meal, but healthy and nutritious. Dan and I laughed as we ate, using plastic lids as our eating utensils, the food finding its way into our beards. As tired as I was, I decided to wash our clothes and hang them up outside. We believed we would reach civilisation the following day, but I wanted us to have some clean, dry underclothes just in case. In my opinion, we were ready to wrap up Iceland. One more day and, mentally, we would be into the home straight.

The following morning was horrible – for me, at least. After we awoke, I immediately started packing up our gear and putting the changing rooms back into the condition we had found them. I wanted to get going as quickly as possible, and asked Dan to assist. He was becoming irritated as I rushed around madly, to the point that, when I finished preparing his oats breakfast and asked him not to take his time finishing up, he verbalised his frustration.

‘Why can’t you just chill and leave me alone? For fuck sakes, we’re a team, and you never stop rushing around. It’s frustrating me to no end!’

‘Geez Dan,’ I replied, ‘we have 47 kilometres ahead of us today, no guarantee on the weather conditions, the wrong tide, no bale-out spots, a schedule that we cannot break, and I still have two hours’ work to do for us before we start paddling. What do you expect me to be like if we are to actually be successful. Don’t be so arrogant.’

‘I’m not arrogant. You’re an arsehole and don’t even realise it. You never realise how you always shout at those around you. And that’s why people don’t like you. You really have some serious personal issues to address,’ Dan continued.

Furious, I continued packing our clothing. We were now shouting loudly at each other.

‘I wish I had never brought you on this journey! There are so many more deserving people out there. People who don’t have a fraction of what you have, and you continue to be arrogant. You don’t deserve to have been given this opportunity!’ I shouted. Every word came from my sense of anger and hurt. How could Dan not appreciate what was being done for him? How dare he attack me personally after everything I’d done for him? The wind was knocked out of me. I had no energy or breath left to say another word.

Dan had the last word, though. As I walked towards the doorway, with his clothes in my hand, I heard him say: ‘You could do with someone who loves you.’

I was floored; no one had ever said such a hurtful thing to me. I carried on with the packing, running back and forth to our kayak with the dry bags and paddles. As I stood there, waiting for Dan to make his way over the grass to the beach, I spoke to the camera. I wanted to rid myself of this hurt and just carry on. I like my strength and didn’t need criticism of it by someone who didn’t understand. I said something to the effect that I hoped Dan would learn something from this journey, instead of just saying that he has. To me – the guy who saw him warts and all – he wasn’t showing it.

In the back of my mind, I knew I had to release my hurt. As I spoke to the camera, I saw Dan appear over the ridge. At the time, I didn’t want to speak about it further in front of him. However, this is what I wanted to say. Dan was right. Because of my family-less upbringing, I never had the privilege of trusting anyone’s love. I have never, ever believed that someone loved me unconditionally. As a child, I was hurt so much by those around me, whether they knew it or not, that I probably would never believe anyone who told me they loved me. I believed Dan would, in a sense, ‘love’ me because of what I’d done for him. But he had chosen rather to hurt and attack me. But, in another sense, he was dead right: I could do with someone who loves me.

The 47 kilometres were cold, misty in some places and sunny in others, but mostly we had the wind at our back. For a change, the weather remained good the entire way, and the sea nice and flat, so that when I got the team on the radio, I told them we couldn’t land where they were, at Fell. We were going around the point of Fell and across the little bay to the south of it. We’d land at the far end of the bay, at Litla Ávík or Stóra Ávík. Tracey seemed upset with me again, but I didn’t care. I was going to prepare myself for the end. The rest of the team had to do the same: stop complaining and get on with it. It amazes me how people can complain non-stop, but, when they achieve something, they want the glory. You don’t get glory for moaning. There are no prizes for achieving something with a negative attitude.

After five consecutive days of paddling, though, we’d got considerably further than we’d planned. If we could just keep to the schedule, we would get to Húsavík on time.

We settled on Stóra Ávík, which was in a pretty rough piece of landscape. From here, weather permitting, we would set off next day straight across Húnaflói Bay, paddling 55 kilometres to a place called Skagi, near the tip of the Skagaheiði Peninsula. It was now 27 August, the day we were originally supposed to arrive at Húsavík. The new date was several days ahead, and, barring really unforeseen disasters, we were going to be there in time.

Tracey had to manage the end-of-expedition function at Húsavík, which was going to be quite an event, but not a very long one, because Dan and I would have to fly out the same evening. In addition, she was playing hostess to Marianne Schwankhart, a journalist from the Sunday Times, who had arrived from Johannesburg to spend the last few days with the team for a photo essay. I wish Tracey had embraced these challenges and had communicated better with me. My fault was that I just said yes to everything; I should have showed more courage in leading as well. I saw such strength in Tracey. On the beach at Breiðavík, I had asked her about who had knocked her confidence, or doubted her, so much that she, like me, second-guessed everything she did. I believe Tracey is like me in that we grab every gram of external validation of whether we are worthwhile or not.

It hadn’t been an easy few days, but Dan and I had discovered more about each other. I realised now – pretty belatedly, and perhaps it was mainly my fault – that, when it came to Dan accepting himself, open talk was required: honest talk about his cerebral palsy, and about the fact that he was different and walked differently, and that people saw him differently. I felt I’d earned the opportunity to be able to talk to him as a friend who didn’t have to hold back. Inevitably, I think, his good friends had always tiptoed around him, but I had earned the right to be harsh with him in a kind way. I could be honest with him, more honest than other people, and that was what he needed.

Before we set out, I had promised that I would treat Dan as an equal partner, which meant that I expected him to do his very best at all times, cerebral palsy or no cerebral palsy. That was what Dan wanted, too, the rite of passage every red-blooded young man needs to prove himself to himself. I had been lucky, blessed with a sound body that had allowed me to become a paratrooper and a rugby player. Through no fault of his own, Dan had been denied the opportunity to do anything like that.

This had been his chance to flip a derisive finger at the bodily weakness that had so unfairly been inflicted on him at birth, and show – to others, but most importantly to himself – that he was as good as, or better than, the next man.

Dan and I were feeling good, now that the finish line was just a hop and a skip away. We could start looking back on everything. It had been tough, sure, and I had lost 12 kilograms without having been overweight in the first place. On the whole, I had enjoyed it, although understandably it was a bit of a shock for Dan in the beginning. But most of the time we had stayed in huts or guesthouses, we had had lots of food, and we were strong all the way. So it was no problem, and now we were just keen to go home. But I knew that the memories of this trip, and particularly our trek round the Westfjords, would go home with us and never fade away.

We now had 105 kilometres left, which, among other things, involved a major bay crossing. An open-water paddle far from land is always dangerous, but by this stage it held no terrors for us – a case of ‘been there, done that, got the dry suit’. The secret was the first few kilometres.

‘The first 20,’ Dan said.

‘It’s the first 20,’ I agreed, ‘that’s exactly it, and it’s actually the first kays, to get us into a rhythm.’ Although I was pretty well exhausted, I felt so cheerful that I burst into song. Poor Dan. But he was very good about it, and didn’t even beat me over the head with his paddle. Well, he didn’t really have time – we were averaging a steady seven kilometres per hour.