CHAPTER 17: TO THE FINISH LINE

CHAPTER 17

TO THE FINISH LINE

‘It turned out to be a lekker day, hey?’

With the Westfjords behind us, the Sunday Times giving us their time, and two crucial days of rest, I found myself in an ideal place mentally. I calculated that we had four more hops on our journey before we reached Húsavík. This stretch of Iceland’s northern coast is defined by three peninsulas. We would paddle from one to the other, avoiding the deep fjords in between. The distances were a bit extreme, though, given the general unpredictability of the weather and the sea conditions. But although I had disappointed many people by extending the finish date by a week, I could extend it again. Or could I?

While the team began the long and winding drive around Húnaflói Bay to our next landing place, Dan and I forged ahead. I reckoned, perhaps ambitiously, that we would need a minimum of about eight hours on the water to cover the 55 kilometres across the bay. The mist was thick at first. I had monitored the weather reports throughout the night, and the wind was behaving as I’d been led to believe it would, but who trusts weather reports anyway? The bottom line was that this day was another gamble, and I hadn’t shared this with anyone. I didn’t want to have to explain the possibility that awaited us if the cold southerly wind got above 15 km\h. I often joked with myself that I wanted to be as sure about everything as the rest were around me. No one ever showed any concern for me – maybe to Dan, but never to me. Come to think of it, maybe it was a favour of sorts. I was never given ‘more’ reason to worry! Perfect, hey?

For this open-sea crossing, I chose to head slightly to the southeast. That way, if we were caught by stronger winds, we would have some emergency landing options. From where we were, far away from land, a strong southerly wind could blow us far out into the Denmark Strait. The strength of the current, though, was the biggest surprise for me that day. When I steered the kayak relative to the coastline, I noticed that we still had the benefit of the powerful tidal surge into this deep bay. This probably made the day. Dan and I paddled well for the first 20 kilometres, but when we reached the halfway mark he was clearly at his limit. Fortunately, I felt stronger than I had in the last two weeks. Maybe the two days’ rest had done us good. Our paddle followed a slightly zigzag course, which was longer than needed, but turned out to be safer. Because of the change of direction, the wind was over our right shoulders – almost perfect.

We took it a bit too easy for the last eight kilometres or so, and needed to speed up. It was 20h00, and Iceland seemed to be getting back into winter mode, because it was getting really cold. I suspected there was snow on the way. We’d gone a full seasonal cycle – from snow to snow.

As we neared the landing place, my main objective was to spot the guys on shore and save ourselves time and distance. I couldn’t see movement or light. I stopped and tried to call Tracey’s cellphone, with no luck – each time it went straight to voicemail. I thought, because of the remoteness, that it must have been the reception. Ten minutes later, I got a radio call from her: ‘I SMSed, Riaan. I heard you were trying to call.’ I could not reply on the radio immediately as it was safely tucked away and the sea was too choppy. If only the people on shore understood what it took to accomplish a small task such as answering the radio. Tracey sounded irritated; I didn’t have the energy to deal with her emotions at that moment. I needed to get us safely to shore. Dan was fatigued, and it took all my remaining energy to keep him motivated. On the positive side, we knew we were now within half a dozen kilometres of shore; the radio wouldn’t have worked otherwise.

The problem, as it transpired, was that the team hadn’t reached the landing place; they had had trouble getting through a locked gate. But they decided against forcing their way through, I was told later, and had to find another way to get to the shore. My mind had a clear picture of Chez searching for solutions; finding alternative routes is his speciality.

We staggered up the beach, stiff with cold and muscle-weariness. But there would be no time to rest: next day, we would undertake another long paddle, around the tip of the Skagaheiði Peninsula and into Skagafjörður Bay, another amazing 40-kilometre fjord crossing. I hoped the weather would hold. I was making the kind of decisions about weather that I had promised myself I wouldn’t make. Just because we were heading for the finish didn’t mean that the worst could not happen. As much as I should have been ‘enjoying’ this, I wasn’t.

Next morning, we launched and paddled away as scheduled. Richard and Darren followed us for a while in a rubber duck, frantically filming and photographing us before they had to head back to land. The coastline was like something out of a Hardy Boys novel, full of little nooks, coves and crannies. I wasted time taking us into almost every gap and under every eroded rock arch.

My planning the night before had been ambitious, to say the least. I wanted an all or nothing day. We needed it to bank on the security of finishing on time. The weather forecast was for two good days, followed by a day of poor weather before the final dash to the finish. I believed we could paddle to the tip of the deeply indented Tröllaskagi Peninsula. That would mean doing 72 kilometres in one day. Crazy, I know, but I thought it was possible. Option two was to head directly across the fjord to the nearest land, which was about 40 kilometres away. That would give us 50 kilometres for the day. Option three was to just call it a day and rest up for a monster day the next. I have to admit I felt drained and almost delirious.

I stopped the kayak at the northeasterly point of the Skagaheiði Peninsula, threw my legs over the side and took control of my thoughts. Yip, it was just another paddle. But it wasn’t. I had had such conviction the previous night about the importance of today’s paddle. I couldn’t doubt myself now. I explained to Dan why I had stopped, and explained to him how I saw our options for the day, and how each option would affect our finish-day projection. Then I grabbed at a freezing-cold Lucozade and gulped away. I didn’t need the physical energy, but I desperately needed the mental bang that glucose delivers.

Dan and I decided on option two. The angles required for this bay crossing didn’t allow me the luxury to switch to option one halfway across. Nonetheless, the 50-odd kilometres would do for one day!

I wanted to give Dan a gift that I knew could never be matched: a close-up whale experience. Although the journey was an experience in its own right, I wanted him to have an experience he would struggle to explain in words. I had believed I would fail in this, too. But nature delivered on that day.

I had been listening to music, and so was unaware of the sounds around us. When we stopped for a drink, Dan said he had heard something odd. I listened, and immediately recognised the sound of a whale breathing, which can seem aggressive and bellowing. Dan described it as if we were near a harbour and huge trucks were offloading loads of rubble. It was a very apt description, I thought, of what is essentially water being forced violently into the air. Although I was certain he had heard whale sounds, I didn’t get too excited. The water was as smooth as glass and the air crisp. Sound could travel for many kilometres on a day like this. We continued paddling, but I switched off the music.

The small island of Málmey glided past on our right. And then the vision appeared. The afternoon had turned into another of those pinkish, blue-grey scenes of tranquillity. A few hundred metres ahead of us to the left, a humpback whale was regularly breaking the glassy surface to breathe. On my Madagascar trip I had had many interactions with humpback whales, as well as with sharks and turtles. The most dangerous situation was probably when I went too close to a mother whale and her calf. Generally, humpback whales are shy and will not usually present aggressive behaviour. I was confident I could manoeuvre us into a position close enough for Dan to feel the whale’s breath. When approaching a whale at sea, your movement must create an almost accidental coming together of paths. Rhythm and timing are key. Never chase a whale; its considerable speed can be very deceptive. Fortunately, this one gave me two breathing sessions before diving, and thus suggested a probable route. I turned us away from the whale and steered slightly landward for 100 metres, explaining to Dan that were going to sit and wait. We needed to be silent and, most importantly, not to tap our paddles on the side of the kayak. If startled, whales will dive deep and disappear.

As if on cue, the whale glided gracefully across our bow, just a few metres away. I estimated its length at 10 metres, with a noticeably unhealthy-looking dorsal fin. I had Dan sit completely still as I began paddling us forward, aiming for an imaginary spot diagonally to our right-hand side so that we would be right behind the majestic beast when it surfaced. And that’s how it turned out: Dan and I saw her gliding a metre or so in front of us, gasping for a bigger breath each time. Dan was within reach of the whale as I brought the nose of the kayak right under the animal’s tail fin as she flung it into the air before diving. Geez, it was special for me – not specifically the whale interaction, but rather Dan’s reaction to it. He brought his hands to his head, fingers through his hair and, with a sigh of disbelief, said ‘Oh my woooooord, no ways. No ways!’

It’s difficult to explain, I guess, but this was probably the first time I felt I had really given Dan something. It was probably the first time I felt real appreciation, too. Man, I was happy. If only Dan could have seen the size of my smile!

Dan and I reached the shore on the most tranquil day on the water we had yet had. An admirable distance of 50 kilometres signalled the end of our fourth-last paddle. I was in high spirits, and had plenty to say to the nine leopard seals that followed us into the rocky cove. The cameras and Toyotas were waiting for us. I needed a hot shower and some sleep.

So, piece by piece, we conquered Iceland’s coastline, but it had taken its toll, and on many levels. When we went to bed we knew that, although the Westfjords were behind us, and Húsavík agonisingly close, we weren’t there yet.

Just three more paddles! We’d been doing it for so long that it just didn’t seem possible we were near the end.

It was strange – for me, that is – to see the excitement with which the crew responded every time Dan mentioned that his mother and his brother Andy were coming to see him at the finish. Of course, it was natural for the crew to be excited about hosting the visitors in Húsavík, but what amazed me was how no one in the group cared about me, or my welfare, for the finish. No one asked about who would be there to welcome me, the guy who had risked everything he had for them to have this opportunity. Dan never even bothered to ask why Vasti was not coming to see me finish the journey. I believed Tracey had matured on this journey and now understood what was involved in the real world of adventure. I believed she could appreciate the lengths to which I had gone, firstly, to keep her in Iceland, and, secondly, to make her time as comfortable as possible. I guess I was wrong. No one cared.

The truth about Vasti not making it to the finish was something that gnawed away at me. We had no money. We would not be able to cover our rent when we got home. But of course none of the crew cared. Nor did Dan. It hurt. I had spent about R25 000 for Tracey and Zahir to fly to Reykjavík to apply for UK transit visas. It was ludicrous to think that I felt guilty about finishing a week later than planned, outside of their visa expiry dates, when that money could have been used to bring over the person who had suffered back home for six months to make this dream trip come true, the person who had supported me through thick and thin over the last ten years. If there was anyone who had earned the right to be there to see me finish, it was Vasti.

But I buried the negatives, as I always do, and got fired up for our third-last paddle. It turned out to be a cold one. Iceland’s worst winter in 63 years was on its way. Fortunately, we had only 25 kilometres to cover that day. My goal was to get within a chipping distance of the next peninsula, which would essentially put us within reach of Húsavík. The weather showed only one day of rough sea within the last three we had available. Our landing at Sauðanes lighthouse was misty and scary, but I had put on the ‘no other options’ hat by now. The truth was that we had no other options.

Just 85 kilometres to the finish! But there was no undue excitement among the team members yet. There was too much riding on what happened in the next 72 hours, and if this adventure had taught them anything, it was to expect the unexpected. Tracey had the finish to prepare, so I told her to stay in Húsavík for the last three days. Along with Andy, she would organise huge bonfires, Viking style, and arrange to have food and drink on hand for the crowds we hoped would attend. I could see Tracey was stressed, but this time I did nothing about it. I was saving my energy to finish the journey safely, and on time.

I think anyone would understand how disappointed I was that Dan still saw me as the villain. I had shown myself ready to offer my life for his, but Dan was still talking in interviews about my inability to deal with people and my impatience with him. And, still, I had never said one bad word about him. You have to understand how this affected the positive thoughts I had to muster each day, doing what I was doing for eight to ten hours a day for Dan. But I came back smiling and supportive every single morning.

Our second-last day of paddling dawned. It was crazy to think we had just one more 45-kilometre paddle remaining. As I said to Dan, it was in fact our last paddle: ‘The last paddle doesn’t feel like a last paddle, Dan, you won’t even remember it. Today is actually our last paddle!’

We were heading for a little bay called Hvalvatnsfjörður. We didn’t know what to expect, but with the northwesterly swell and an onshore breeze, I believed we had perfect conditions for a safe landfall. More importantly, I believed Hvalvatnsfjörður would make a good launch site for our last day. The conditions were relatively good, but began to deteriorate as we reached the 30-kilometre mark. Dan said he wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t paddle. Maybe it was nerves or something he had eaten. I didn’t mind taking over for the last 10 kilometres, and made sure I used the end of this day to boost him and to remind him of his imminent achievement.

Sometimes you say something to another person that turns out to have more impact in your own life. I remember telling Dan, as we turned into the bay and were about 600 metres from shore: ‘Today is not a measure of what you have achieved in Iceland. It is not a measure of you.’ I felt bad, as I could see he was emotional. ‘Prepare yourself for the magic of tomorrow because you’ve earned this, Dan. Be strong, be brave!’ And then I remembered something that had been a special moment for me in Madagascar: ‘Dan, this will be the last time you finish a day knowing you have to paddle again. The last time.’ It was getting very real.

‘When people say they have a special relationship with the sea now, you do have a relationship with the sea now, hey, Dan, you realise that?’

‘I do, with the boat,’ he replied.

I knew what he meant, and I remembered my own words when I had opened the kayak six months earlier: ‘When I take this out, people think that I have some feeling or attachment to this. I absolutely have none … We’re just unwrapping a piece of fibreglass now; when we finish, tell you what, this becomes a living person and part of the journey. This kayak’s name is Inspiration, so we’re going to name it that.’

Then I said to Dan: ‘Strange what I started feeling now … like, sad that this day’s coming to an end. Strange, hey. Earlier today I was busy thinking this day is taking too long, now I was thinking, come on, man, this day is coming to an end.’

‘It turned out to be a lekker day, hey?’ Dan voiced his satisfaction.

I knew what Bob was getting at when he said Dan is a shining light. He is, and I unfortunately had had to bring that gentle, shining light into a rough, unforgiving world that doesn’t allow for excuses or ‘try agains’.

We did some straight talking as we stroked our way ever closer to Hvalvatnsfjörður, exploring our relationship and delving into our individual motivations.

‘I don’t want to preach to you … Get over the fact where your challenges are, you know, so do you understand those challenges?’

‘Ja.’

‘Make a huge effort in other stuff, so you don’t have to be apologetic. Show your effort in other stuff, you know, man, it’s all right … Then you don’t have to be apologetic.’

‘Ja, ja,’ Dan agreed.

‘Because you want to do what somebody else can do, that can’t do things you can do?’ I expanded on my theory. This brought back some childhood memories for Dan.

‘My mate’s dad, he said to me when I was 11, he said you must never forget that you are a special boy,’ Dan said.

Enthusiastically, I added: ‘And you’ve always heard people say that, but you haven’t believed it, hey?’

‘Ja. So now it’s just sort of, it’s almost like I feel like I’m repaying a little bit of that faith that people have in me, you know?’

‘Sure … My harshness has been a part of the jigsaw, Dan, where I’m saying that, we can talk about battling yourself. We can talk about making the most of the situation … We can talk about it and talk about it, but it’s that actual doing that matters, you know, and that’s why you’ve come here and you’ve done.’

This probably presented the most opportune moment for me to withdraw the hurt I felt my words had caused him a week before. Even though Dan didn’t know he had hurt me deeply that day at Reykjaförður springs, I had decided I would apologise to him.

‘I didn’t mean what I said that other day about the fact that I should have rather taken somebody on this journey that was more deserving.’ I paused for a second ‘Because you are very deserving.’

Dan was emotional in his response again. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank you.’

How dare I have left that thought in his mind? No way. Even if he never apologised, it didn’t matter. I was not going to leave a good person with that thought in their mind and heart.

When we got ashore, Dan spoke into the team’s cameras: ‘We had an enjoyable day, a long day, but we both enjoyed it and tried to savour the moment of the last paddle, because we’re racing towards the finish, maybe that’ll go away in a blur. We had a good day and a heart-to-heart, and I for one thoroughly enjoyed that.’

‘Little bit sad at the end of the day, to see it filmed,’ he added.

Dan and I found it difficult to believe that we were on the brink of victory. I had a slight attack of the cautions: ‘I’ve gone through too much in the last little while, from disappointment to worry … just thinking maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.’

Dan, on the other hand, definitely had his tail up. ‘Who the hell would have thought that somebody that’s been in a boat for the sum total of about eight hours before attempting Iceland, would actually get around, you know?’ he asked triumphantly.

Then Dan brought us back to the present: ‘Lots of highs, lots of lows, lots of laughter and lots of tears,’ he said into Darren’s camera. ‘But the fact of the matter is that we’re one paddle away from completing something that will change my life forever, and I’m sure will change Riaan forever.’

And the end was nigh; it was unbelievable, actually, as we woke up, drank coffee, and prepared for our last one-on-ones with Darren and Zahir. The interviews were probably crucial, but inevitably delayed our departure. For good measure, the team had to deal with a flat tyre before they left. But Zahir doesn’t blink at small issues like this – last day or not – and had it repaired within an hour.

The delay left us very little time to reach the finish, where the wellwishers were expecting us. More importantly, it left little time for Dan and I to catch our flight to London. Shea, my superstar PA, had worked tirelessly to organise the media and our supporters to come out to OR Tambo airport to welcome us back to South Africa. Every major radio and TV station wanted a piece of the action. We couldn’t upset them, and we certainly didn’t want to upset Shea!

Our delayed departure from Hvalvatnsfjörður was not the result of slacking on our part. Iceland wasn’t going to be beaten without one final battle; the surf was very rough, and, unless it calmed down, we weren’t going to be able to get through it. I had to make a difficult judgment call. The urgency for us to get going was immense. Yet, I was hesitant, although I am not by nature a hesitant person, when I looked at what we had to get through to reach the open sea. On the one hand, we had everything to gain by launching; on the other hand, it would be tragic if something went wrong at this late stage.

I wasn’t the only one. ‘I’m nervous, man,’ Dan confessed, eyeing the raging surf – mainly because he didn’t want to disappoint the assembled Skinstads at Húsavík. ‘These aren’t the conditions I expected. I’ve got to concentrate now, but my mum and Andy have come out a long way to come and visit … the conditions aren’t just playing their part now. So it’s going to be slow.’

But if we hoped to make the party, we had to set off right away. The two-metre shore-break could easily snap an arm or a leg. The waves thundered onto the rocky shores, making the ground vibrate. I couldn’t believe it. I would have to take Dan through the surf, and then return for the even more physically dangerous task of pulling the kayak through. If I failed, the repercussions would be huge, and many people would be disappointed.

The cold water numbed my head and hands as I drove Dan through the shore-break. I needed to get him a bit further out than normal, so I took a minute to get back. Running back up the beach to the kayak was a blur as I tried to remind myself to breathe properly. I turned with the kayak in hand and slid it in one long motion along the smooth pebbles and into a huge ball of foam. I held on for dear life. My wrist and fingers twisted in the kayak handle. Once through the impact zone, it was not plain sailing to collect Dan. I needed him to swim to me in a safe area. I could not risk being smashed onto the shore by the waves. He showed guts and determination as he swam the 20 metres to me and launched himself into the kayak.

Our last day had just begun.

The paddle was a nervous one. As we left Hvalvatnsfjörður, I had to guide us along the cliffs of Geldinganes, with huge swells and thunderous waves smashing into the wall of rock. The problem was that thick mist hindered our view of where we were going. I used a combination of the map and my experience to judge how close we could go as we rounded the peninsula. Two or three close calls kept us on our toes. I kept repeating to myself how much I would like to have an easy run to the finish, but it wasn’t to be. We were slowly falling further behind schedule. It’s a hell of a thing: a man sweats his guts out for nearly six months and then barely gets to attend his own party!

There was no way we could just strike out across Skjálfandi Bay; I couldn’t risk us sitting in open seas without a fully loaded GPS. We had to follow the western coastline of the bay until I could be sure the mist was lifting. But it didn’t. I then explained to Dan how we needed to use the swell running into the bay to our benefit. It would save us the time we were losing by not cutting across early.

But things worked out amazingly once again. I hadn’t made real peace with this Iceland journey and what it had brought into my life, but I was about to. The moment coincided with my decision to turn left into open water. My inner voice was saying: ‘On your African circumnavigation, Riaan, you did something special. You understand our continent like few on the planet do. In Madagascar you learnt new lessons and were humbled by wonderful people again. But in Iceland there is no doubt that you have done and learnt more than both combined. You have done something for someone else. Even if the people around you didn’t appreciate what you have done. The bottom line is you have done something great for another human being.’

Geez, I was emotional with myself. I needed to hear those words sincerely from deep inside me because I had not believed them up to that point. I had hated every second in Iceland, but those few sentences changed everything. Now I was eager and ready to take on the dangerous and mist-laden crossing to Húsavík. We had a whalewatching experience similar to the one in Faxaflói Bay, when we encountered a boat cruising in the mist, looking for whales. The tourists on board were flabbergasted at the sight of two bearded madmen, 20 kilometres from shore in choppy, three-metre seas. Dan and I posed for pics, and then began the blur of the final kilometres.

At Húsavík, Tracey was upbeat in front of the cameras, saying how happy she was to have brought everything together. The welcomers were down on the beach, the bonfires were ready to be lit, and everyone was watching the curtain of mist. For Mrs Skinstad, in particular, this was an emotional moment, and I heard later that she couldn’t drag her eyes from the water. No other person felt the emotions that she was feeling. Dan was everything to her. The bond between them was beyond a typical mother-son bond. I knew she probably shared the crew’s feelings toward me. For her, the finish would represent two things: an achievement, of course, but also the end to the dreadful angst she had endured for the last six months. It must have been tough on her. Of all the people to whom I wanted to guarantee Dan’s safe return, above all it was to his mother.

They saw us before we saw them, I found out later. Through binoculars, Andy spotted the speck of yellow that was our kayak. With a sense of great fulfilment, I told Dan: ‘You’ve come, you’ve seen and you’ve conquered.’ But that wasn’t enough. I wanted to tell him more. With the bonfires exploding on the beach and the crowds cheering us landward, I decided on impulse to jump out of the boat into the freezing water and swim to Dan’s side to tell him how I felt.

My message was simple. No matter what had taken place on this journey, the fact remained he had done well, he was a hero, and he had made his family so proud.

‘Your Mom and your brother love you so much and cannot wait to welcome their favourite son to shore. Look at the effort they have made for you,’ I continued.

‘Dan, another thing,’ I was emotional now, close to tears. ‘It has been a privilege for me to be the person that shared the kayak with you while you completed this amazing journey. Take this opportunity and make it happen for you. Your life has changed.’

And then we were there, stiff and cold and tired, and deliriously happy, and Dan was being embraced by a joyfully sniffling Mrs Skinstad and Andy. Then, as if it were ceremonial, Dan, Mrs Skinstad and myself were knocked into the water by the drifting kayak – a last laugh from the Icelandic seas. Mrs Skinstad has a wonderful sense of humour and kept smiling throughout. She didn’t have a dry suit on, but it didn’t matter. It was lovely to see how proud they were of Dan. I can only begin to imagine.

At the same time, I was sad, even though the film shows me smiling in the background. I was all alone, the crew hugging and shaking each other’s hands, while I pondered what it would have been like to have had someone I loved welcome me and tell me I had done well, I wanted that person to be Vasti. Geez, I was sad. I didn’t show it.

Instead, I took care of the kayak and moved it ashore – probably out of habit. Then I did the first thing that had to be done: I thanked everyone, from the crew to the Skinstads and the mayor and his people. The champagne corks popped, like a salute being fired by miniature cannon, to celebrate our safe return. The fellow who wrote that it was better to travel hopefully than to arrive didn’t know what he was talking about.