By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong (31 page)

As soon as we hit the bigger waves the boat rocked awkwardly and I knew we were overloaded. We were also making our way straight for a narrow channel between the small islands instead of going around them. Glancing across, I saw that the pilot looked nervous. I looked at the grey, swollen sea and the high, choppy waves breaking through the channel and just knew this was a mistake. We were low in the water and the closer we got to the channel the higher the waves became. By the time we got to the first of the rocks they were slapping the bows and soaking us with spray.

This was no good: we were weighed down as it was and this guy was taking us on some crazy short cut that didn’t look at all safe. I should’ve said something, asked him to turn back and go around the islands, but it was too late and we were in the channel with massive black rocks on both sides and the choppy open sea directly ahead. It was no longer a swell - it was rough, the waves tightly compressed and coming at us one after the other.

‘Fucking hell,’ Russ said, as a wave hit the bows with a sound like a pistol shot.

I could feel a sudden dip in the revs and the bows went down. I shook my head. This felt wrong, stupid: we’d been taught how to pilot a speedboat in Southampton and when the waves are rough you don’t suddenly close the throttle.

‘He’s got to keep the power on,’ I shouted to Russ, pointing at the pilot. ‘The bows are far too low.’ We were in a dangerous place, the waves coming thick and fast. Sitting there, helpless, I was sure now that the guy didn’t really know what he was doing. But surely he knew these waters?

Matt turned the big camera, the Z7, to face the oncoming waves. As he did so a huge breaker reared up right in front of the boat.

‘Fuck!’ I saw Matt duck away and turn towards us, trying to save the camera. The wave hit and he was almost knocked off his feet. Up front the others were hanging on to the gunwales. Russ and I were in the stern and we were saturated by the spray; the boat was yawing badly now. Then the engine conked out.

This was serious: what might have been a bit of a concern thirty seconds ago had suddenly become a deadly situation. We were without power in a rough channel and there was every chance we’d be pushed onto the rocks.

I could feel my heart thumping. I thought of Olly and the kids and for a nanosecond everyone was silent.

Then we all started talking at once.

The pilot was trying to start the boat but it wouldn’t go: it coughed and spluttered for a few moments then nothing; not even the whirr of electrics. He’d lost his confidence, I could see it. He had brought us in here then bottled it and cut the power. That last wave must have got into the electrics. Now we had no protection against
any
waves, we couldn’t steer, the boat was spinning and there was nothing but rough water between us and those rocks.

‘This is really serious, guys,’ I said. Looking at their faces, I knew I was only saying what everyone else was thinking. We were dead in the fucking water. Shunted around at the mercy of the sea, we were shifting ever closer to walls of rock and there was nothing we could do about it.

Behind me, Russ was clinging on to the flimsy struts that held the canopy in place. The boat was rolling badly, turning in the swell and see-sawing so the waves were coming from behind us now. The government attaché was looking grim; Anne was silent behind the camera that (God bless her) was still rolling. The pilot was on his cellphone. He told Chi that he was trying to get another boat to come out and help us. Looking at how close the rocks were I wasn’t sure there would be time.

‘If we do go down make sure you’ve got your life jackets on,’ Russ said. ‘Best to try and swim back through that channel because it gets smoother on the other side.’

For a moment nobody said anything then, almost surreptitiously, Anne reached for her life jacket.

This was really grim. I’m not good in small boats, I never have been. We all had families and we were in real danger of never seeing them again. Yes, we might be able to swim, but the channel was so tight and the waves so unpredictable, there was every chance we’d be slammed into the rocks. One good whack on the head and if you weren’t killed outright you’d be knocked unconscious and drown.

‘This is not good at all.’ I was staring at the pilot. ‘What has this guy done?’

I had my passport in my pocket together with the pearls I’d bought from the oysterman; they were the last things I’d packed when we left this morning. Instinctively now I slipped them into the waterproof pouch I was carrying. If we went over I promised myself that somehow I’d swim ashore. I would make it. I’d have my passport and the pearls and I’d take them home to my family.

Suddenly, from nowhere, a long, blue fishing boat appeared at the lip of the channel; a traditional open boat with furled sail. We could see two men on board and started yelling to them. Seeing us, without hesitation they turned into the channel.

The swell was getting worse and minute by minute we were being pressed ever closer to the islands: we were pitching and yawing, rolling with each new wall of water that was forced through the channel. I looked at those jagged grey rocks and shook my head. I should have trusted my instincts right from the start.

The fishing boat had either answered a summons generated by the phone call or they had just happened to see us: either way they were coming, thank God. Much longer and we’d be on the rocks and would have no choice but to bail out.

They were close now and the waves were so rough I thought they were going to crash right into us. That would be a disaster; if their boat hit ours it would force us onto the rocks. The guy at the front, who was barefoot and wearing a coolie hat, was calling out and gesturing for us to throw him a line. The pilot slammed their boat into reverse and they kept steady long enough for us to get a rope to them. It was short, though, and their boat was beginning to turn. We were turning also, pitching badly, the boats too close with massive waves rearing at the edge of the channel. We gripped the sides, the struts to the canopy, anything we could find to brace ourselves. The fishing boat was still turning and I realised they were tying our line to a longer one so they could pay us out some distance.

A big wave hit side on and the boat almost capsized: another like that and we’d be over.

Just then a second fishing boat appeared on the island side of the channel. It was bigger than the first, with a wheelhouse, and sat higher in the water. Yelling and whistling, we tried to attract their attention but whether they saw us or not, they just kept going.

‘This is fucking crazy, man,’ I muttered.

‘The worst thing is the waves coming behind us,’ Russ stated, almost matter-of-factly. ‘When you’re learning to sail they teach you to steer into the waves, waves coming over the back will fill up the boat, that’s why it sinks.’

‘All right, all right.’ I looked round angrily at him. ‘Thank you very much.’

Mercifully, the guys in the fishing boat seemed to be winning. They had worked the line around and turned their craft. Suddenly there was hope and I watched as they took up the slack and we straightened up behind them. They didn’t mess about; as soon as that line was secure they hauled ass out of there.

At last we were moving, no longer at the mercy of the waves. Realising we’d make it I took a long look at the rocks, ragged and sharp; if we’d hit one of those it would’ve been curtains.

My heart rate slowed a little as we made it safely out of the channel into calmer water. We were heading back to Cat Ba and right now all I wanted was to feel land under my feet and phone my wife.

‘That was lucky,’ Russ said.

‘We should’ve gone round that headland like everybody else,’ I said. ‘What the fuck did he think he was doing taking us through there when we’re seriously overloaded to begin with?’ I was no longer scared, I was bloody angry. The pilot had no right doing what he’d done: and then to lose confidence in the middle of the channel - that was unforgivable. He kept his face forward, steering the boat under the tow and not looking at any of us. The fishermen left us at the nearest pontoon and we thanked them; a couple of guys who’d risked their lives to make sure we didn’t lose ours.

Fifteen minutes later a larger cruiser came out and threw us a line, towing us to the harbour wall. As I spotted the steps leading up to land I felt an immense sense of relief. The main camera - the Z7 Matt had been using - was broken. Matt had tried to keep it dry but after that wave it had worked for a while before completely giving up the ghost. But thank God that was all we’d lost.

‘He doesn’t expect to get paid, does he?’ I said, pointing to the pilot as we unloaded the last of the gear.

Back on dry land with our lives and most of the equipment intact, we had to decide what to do next. There was a car ferry across to the mainland but we were too late for that so after a coffee and a phone call to Olly, we headed for the other side of the island and the passenger ferry. Russ and I decided that once we were on the mainland again we’d try to rent a van and scoot down to Nam Dinh as fast as we could.

I was pretty shaken, kicking myself for ignoring my first instincts. Jesus, just thinking about it put a few grey hairs on me.

The last thing I wanted to do was get on any other kind of boat: someone had suggested we get another private boat for the sake of speed, but forget that. The passenger ferry was about as small as I’d go: a decent size with two massive Caterpillar diesels to power it over the waves. Forty minutes after we boarded we were back on the mainland.

It was nearly five o’clock now and we had maybe four hours on the road to Nam Dinh. We climbed into a minibus we’d managed to organise from the island. Settling back, I realised I was actually looking forward to the train.

We were all a little quiet - not surprising after the events of the day. Everyone reacts in different ways in that kind of life-or-death situation; I’d worn my heart on my sleeve, swearing and probably stating the obvious, whereas Russ had been sitting there calmly talking up the worst-case scenario. Brighade had a cut on her arm, which I cleaned and dressed; it was just a scratch but in this climate you have to be careful of infection. It was the only injury, thankfully. All in all, not a good moment and the closest we’d come to disaster since we’d left home.

It was dark when we got to Nam Dinh and the train that would take us south. The roads had been decent and we made it with some time to spare, but we couldn’t see much of Nam Dinh because it was dark and the street lighting wasn’t good. Physically tired and emotionally drained, we found a family-run cafe with a gathering of small tables and chairs set up outside. We ordered noodle soup and while we were waiting I called Mungo to see how his knee was. He wasn’t there so I left a message: no doubt we’d speak tomorrow.

A young student and his sister were sitting at a nearby table. We chatted about our trip and what they were doing: we talked about Vietnam and London. The lad was an earnest soul, very committed, telling me about his country and how it had always been misunderstood and in many ways still was. He was very passionate and I liked that: it was good to hear such a solid opinion and I’d noticed the Chinese too had the same kind of passion for their country. The two of them were travelling on the same train we were taking and had bought a parcel of food from the cafe to take with them. There were also three or four little kids running around - they’d rush up to us and yell: ‘hello’ before tearing off again. There was a warmth to the place, and it was good to be in the open air even if it was still ridiculously humid.

The soup arrived, steaming hot and very welcome. I worked out that it was the children’s mother who was serving and their father doing the cooking: three generations with an old woman, probably the grandmother, hovering in the background.

They brew their own beer in this part of Vietnam; it is light and tastes very fresh, though it only lasts for a day and I imagine if you have too much it will give you a thumping headache. They call it ‘Beer Hoy’ and it was served in glasses that were half beer and half froth, European style. It was good stuff.

As we drank together, I realized we’d become a real team now. I’d felt it before, of course, but there are moments on any expedition when things suddenly click. Today was one of those days. Despite that bloody boat and those rocks, nobody had panicked - we held our nerve and got through it together. All for one and one for all. We raised our glasses and drank a toast to being alive.

20

Rainy Season

I woke early on another train going God knows where. Peering blearily out of the window I could see green fields and scattered trees, and mountains in the distance. I’m not sure how much I slept: I found I always drifted in and out of half-dreams sleeping on a train. Every time the train lurches you’re thrown awake, and this one was a right old bone rattler.

We were following a river not far from the coast and, standing at the window after the obligatory visit to the knee trembler, I watched people already working in the fields. It’s not easy squatting over the hole first thing in the morning with the movement of the train and the knowledge that your bowels are looser than they should be. But I’ve got good thighs and - touch wood - so far there hadn’t been any accidents.

We’d been on a few trains now, and while they had their down sides, I’d decided it was much better than a boat: at least the kind of boat we were on yesterday. I still couldn’t get over that guy trying to take us through that little channel. I can’t believe I allowed myself to get on the boat in the first place, but I suppose by any means is by any means and an abortive trip was bound to be part of the expedition.

None of us were very sure what time the train was arriving at Dong Ha, but we’d spoken to the guy who came round selling noodles and he told us we’d be in at seven. Sure enough seven came around and we pulled into the station. I rushed about telling everyone we were here and in a hurry because the trains didn’t hang around long when they stopped. We grabbed our gear and piled into the corridor, had the doors open even, only to discover it wasn’t Dong Ha. The signs said something else altogether: we still had an hour to go before we got to Dong Ha. So it was back to the cabins, four bunks in each and so close you could feel the breath of the person lying opposite.