Ste racked up, a jumble of unmatching gear placed haphazardly on his second-hand harness. It was the racking system of a climber more used to gritstone, used to having time to sort out the mess from comfortable ledges and placing bomber gear in predictable cracks before short sections of on-off friction wobbling. Watching him closely, it struck me that maybe he was not really a climber, more of a good mate who’d been dragged into it when too many of his friends had been too keen. I always felt it was my passion that I’d pushed on to him, adamant that climbing was the best sport in the world and assuming everybody else must surely love it. But for Ste climbing was never the main event and there were a few close calls. His first rope was state-of-the-art, a sub-9-millimetre trad rope that I kind of persuaded him to buy, mine being all fluffy and nicked from my dad. We took it straight to Burbage and set up a swing on the Cioch Block. After just one swing each (a good one though, getting miles above the ground) we retrieved the rope to find it totally trashed in two places, with only three strands of the core left. Ste had no choice but to chop his new rope into three fairly useless 15-metre lengths. Climbing and Ste just weren’t cut out to be a couple.
It hadn’t been easy to get Ste back to Pembroke, and that’s forgetting the double-day hitching nightmare that was guaranteed. Our previous big trip, two years ago with Dave and Tim, had been eventful to say the least, with a couple of incidents that could turn anyone to somewhere more comfortable. Halfway through the trip Ste had to point out the amount of mud on the back of my neck which had built up from dozing in the dirt under the priest’s old house. We bought some soap and scrubbed ourselves in the river near Bosherston. Then a week into the trip Ste took a block on his foot. I saw it sail through the air, the size of a shoebox, dislodged from high up on Deranged, a classic E2 at St Govan’s Head. Watching it aim directly for Ste, the calculation of size, lack of helmet and type of injury looked bad. Somehow it missed his head but seemed to land square on his foot. As I ran over to assess the damage it was clear it wasn’t good, but there had not been a direct hit or the whole foot would have gone. A bunch of stitches at Haverfordwest hospital were required, plus a week of not being able to wear a climbing shoe and not being able to climb, which I doubt was a major hardship. Ste had to endure sunbathing on the beach, snapping photos, and spending evenings with us getting wasted in the barn and stumbling over to the St Govan’s Inn for endless games of pool. It was probably more of the holiday he wanted to be honest. Later on at the end of the trip I made sure it was definitely the end with my monster fall from Blue Sky. This experience had been pretty harrowing, though at the time I hadn’t considered the effects on the others involved. I’d got away with it, kind of, and assumed we’d all just forget about it and live happily ever after. But it’s often the observer who has to deal with the aftermath, the one who really sees the horror unfolding. Memories run deep and are never erased. As I brushed myself down Ste was carried along with a different point of view.
Now we were back at St Govan’s Head, the sounds and feel of the place seeping into us as we gazed upwards at the vastness of the cliff. To our sides, rock stretched out for miles and behind us the jumbles of house-sized blocks, usually pounded by Atlantic waves, were sitting relaxed in a gently lapping millpond. Over the last few days Ste had been climbing well, we both had, encouraging each other into big leads. As usual I was doing the pushing, pushing myself, pushing Ste, because I thought that was what he wanted, what he needed to take his climbing to the next level. As a steady HVS leader it was time to take the next step, the big one into E1, into the Extremes. This is a milestone in every climber’s life. I wanted Ste to make the step, to feel the elation and accomplishment. I even chose the route, The Arrow, E1 5b, a total classic. I’d done it before, a few times. It begins with an easy wall rising out from a jumble of car-sized rounded boulders. After about 4 metres comes a wide ledge, the start of the route proper. Here it kicks in with some steep climbing leading to a bulge at around 8 metres. Reaching around this is probably the crux of the whole route, stretching up for a small ledge. Then it’s a romp to the top, 20 metres of impeccable and well-protected climbing.
At the big ledge Ste fumbled in protection. It was taking a while, bits going in and being taken out again to be replaced by smaller and smaller bits. Eventually, the placement was abandoned and a new one sought out. I vaguely remembered the same problem, having to force something in way out to the side, unhappy to commit to the moves without something decent between me and the ground. Something stirred in my stomach, a feeling of unease. This came to me occasionally, but here, in Pembroke, and here with Ste, it was stronger and more foreboding. I observed it, but didn’t act on it. I hadn’t been to Pembroke since my accident on Blue Sky two years ago and now my memories flooded back. They often did, sometimes in slow motion when I had time to spare, often speeded up, fast forwarding through the events like a warning.
My mind snapped back as Ste struggled with his jumble of wires, the need for attentive belaying suddenly more important. I’d got away with my accident, a mere punctured lung and a few weeks recovering in hospital. I should have been dead. The fall and the impact were enough to do the job, and when they didn’t, the sea should have taken me. My body had been spared and did recover, but my mind was still on edge, aware of the vulnerability of the human form. At the time I didn’t think it had affected me much and that I could just sweep it under the carpet and carry on as normal, but every now and again I’d feel the fear surround me, a sharp awareness of consequence rather than assuming everything would always go according to plan.
Ste had done as well as he could with the rack he had and was now left with the psyching up, assessing difficulty against protection, reward against risk, choosing whether to set off. Apparently it was worth it, in that moment at least, and he committed to the bulge, aiming quickly for the small ledge. He reached it, but faltered. There should be good holds there, but he’d not found them. ‘It’s wet here.’ I was suddenly alert, hands gripping on the 9-millimetre ropes that I fed out in precise amounts, my mind focused on both the climbing movement and the single lonely wire that was suddenly looking wholly inadequate.
Disco leg.
‘It’s really wet, I can’t get onto this ledge, watch me here.’
‘With you mate, good holds coming … ’
Ste was getting really worried, he tried to move up but couldn’t, so he went into reverse mode but that wasn’t working either. I watched his feet flicking around, his toes searching for a hold – none. Now I began to feel the fear down the rope and I could see his panic, thrutching hands, shaking. Suddenly he was in real trouble, shouted that he was going, and then he was off. I watched in slow motion as he peeled off backwards and waited for the rope to go tight but it never did, the wire leaving the rock like it had been held on with Blu-Tack.
First impact was with the ledge, some kind of thud and then a limp body, all limbs coming at me, filling my whole view. He landed within inches, almost on top of me, then bounced into the boulders taking the hopeless wire with him. It was the sound that was intense, like dropping a full El Cap rack on a concrete slab from 1,000 metres. The crash echoed in my head as the view of Ste face down beside me sunk in. No movement. I rolled him over in fear of what I would see. Two eyes staring up with nothing in them, but a deep hole in between that said it all. There were white bits and other bits sticking out before the blood came.
First thought – dead. Second thought – not dead. There was a twitch, but this was not survivable. A horrible hopeless feeling enveloped me as time took on a whole new meaning and I observed the inevitable. Then suddenly there were people around. A pad went on to stop the blood flow. By now it oozed and trickled around us, small streams of dark red appeared in the distance. It covered everything, there was just so much of it; more than there could be in a person. Someone was off to raise the alarm and I held onto Ste, feeling useless as others did essential jobs. More people around us now, nervous about getting involved, but I appreciated their presence. I didn’t know what was going to happen. There had been a lot of groans and then a few words, but all disconnected, nothing to give encouragement.
‘Talk to him, keep him with you.’
I questioned him about irrelevant stuff, anything, trying to get an answer even if it was just a moan, fearful that if he dropped out of consciousness that would be it.
The clatter of the helicopter could not have been more of a relief, quiet and distant at first but ramping in volume to explode as the bulk of the chopper cleared the cliff edge above. They’d arrived in amazing time, being on nearby training exercises. As the stretcher dropped in and activity suddenly went into a frenzy Ste began to fit, shaking uncontrollably and wailing.
It was really awkward getting him onto the stretcher so in the end everyone just picked him up and lobbed him in. The guys fastened him down and I sat right in front of him, staring into his face. All the bandages had come off now and I could see the hole between his eyes. He was unconscious and his breathing wasn’t encouraging, sounding like he was breathing through a half full snorkel. Blood still poured from his head and from his mouth and nose. He wasn’t moving at all now and couldn’t respond at all. Then suddenly the winch took him out and up and away and I was pretty sure that was it. The end.
Many hours later we were given the news. Neutral I guess. Not dead, but not stable. Of course, they were doing all they could. Time passed slowly and the hospital waiting room grew more uncomfortable, but there was nowhere else to go. More news: not going to die. Probable brain damage. What kind of news was that? Good, neutral or bad? I wasn’t sure. Now we had to wait. They would keep him in an induced coma for nearly a week, to let the swelling go down. We’d know nothing until after that.
His parents had to be told. I couldn’t do it. I passed the buck to my dad. Totally unfair, but the job was beyond me. My mum and dad happened to be in Pembroke at the same time on a CMC club meet and we’d kind of co-ordinated our dates, knowing that they’d be useful to be around, a kind of climbers’ version of taking your student washing home every half term. It had been my dad who had been first on the scene; he’d been watching us climb from the top of the cliff. He’d helped stabilise the bleeding, run to raise the alarm, come back to help with the rescue, driven me to the hospital and now dealt with the horrible task of telling Ste’s folks. He’d been critical in every part of the event. He probably saved Ste’s life. Ste’s parents came straight away, holing up next to the hospital and by his side every possible moment, looking for something, a clue as to what might be left. They didn’t blame me, of course. That’s what they said, but how could a parent not blame?
Seven days later and he’d been conscious for two. Very shaky at first, but still ‘there’. We watched for signs, stressing over jumbled sentences and out of sequence memories. But slowly Ste was coming back. Another week later he was flown to Teesside Hospital. I hitched up to visit, I could have stayed in Pembroke, but there was nothing for me now. Something had changed forever. Climbing took a back seat for a while. It was easy to let it go with so many other things in my life at that time: parties, travelling, hanging out in bars. I ventured out occasionally to the cliffs, but it was an ordeal. I wasn’t enjoying it. My climbing was lumpy, hesitant and without any ambition, but worse was my place in a partnership. The fear of someone hurting themselves was always lurking, I became the world’s worst belayer. As soon as someone suggested they were up for something bold I’d be onto them. ‘Looks wet mate, gear looks bad too. Getting late as well … ’
My definition of acceptable risk changed again. I felt like I’d been on a path my whole climbing life, searching out what I wanted from climbing and trying to fathom an acceptable level of risk, balancing it with the elation of success. This was another lesson, but a big one, perhaps the final lecture I’d need to discover my own meaning of the sport. We go through our climbing lives taking risks, balancing them against rewards, but few of us really know the actual outcome of failure. We can vaguely imagine it. We try to discuss it – ‘That’s ankle-breaking height for sure’, ‘A fall from there will be really nasty’, ‘It’s certain death for sure on this route.’ – but we brush it off, because we haven’t seen it, we can’t relate to it. It doesn’t seem like it will happen. But I had seen it. It was real.
I’d be quick to set up a top-rope, and still enjoyed the movement. The climbing part of me still longed for it but the traditional climbing environment was no longer leisure. I let it go.
Ste made a full recovery. He lives in Sheffield, and has three happy kids. I see him a lot and we were in Pembroke again last year. He hasn’t climbed since the accident.