By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong (5 page)

The boat was on the beach and ready to launch as Russ and I got into our black and grey drysuits. They were made of neoprene and very awkward. It was like pulling on some kind of giant body condom.

Mungo wandered over. ‘So anyway,’ he said. ‘Just to cover our arses: what’s plan A and what’s plan B?’

‘You think we’ve got a plan, Mungo?’ I laughed. ‘Of course - you’ve never been with us before, have you? It’s simple: plan A is to get in the boat, get in the water and sort of follow the support boat so we know roughly the direction we’re going.’

‘And plan B is to capsize,’ Russ added.

‘Seriously,’ I said. ‘I’m more concerned about this part of the trip than any other.’

Russ looked supremely confident. ‘I’m excited. It’ll be a doddle; we’ll sit there on one tack and get there in time for tea.’

I wasn’t convinced. I spoke to Lance. ‘So what’s your salty sea-dog opinion?’ I asked him.

He just smiled knowingly. ‘Simple, Charley: as the wind gets up the faster you go.’

Glen, the younger of the two guys from Laser, was rigging the mainsail. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘A light breeze scheduled to build, perfect sunshine. It’ll be great.’

‘See,’ Russ said. ‘Perfect conditions. Your dad said you lead a charmed life. Remember?’

‘What he
actually
said was, he’s spent his entire life swimming against the current, while I just floated downstream.’

‘There you go then. No worries.’

With that we dragged the boat into the water.

If we crossed in good time, Russ was right - we would have perfect conditions. But later that afternoon the wind was due to get up. With that thought in mind I took the rudder; Russ, Glen and Rob sitting next to me on the port gunwale to keep the weight spread. It felt all right, but we hadn’t even left the harbour yet and already a fucking great catamaran ferry was pulling in and lifting waves to rock us from a couple of hundred yards away.

‘Over there is France,’ I said, trying to lift my spirits. ‘Good food, good wine, good cheese and sexy women.’

Once we left the harbour it was just me and Russ and our threadbare experience. It was only now that I wondered why I had spent all my time training in a small plane instead of at sea. I’m fine with motorbikes, I can ride well enough on a track, I can ride the dirt, I’d leap one off a cliff if I was asked. I don’t know what it is about boats, but when you’re steering you have to work the mainsail as well as the steering and that sort of freaks me out. In the Channel on our own with massive ferries steaming by, I felt incredibly vulnerable. We seemed to be all over the place, tacking when we should be gybing, gybing when we should be tacking; upwind; downwind, the sail dipping viciously towards the water. And all the time Rob, the serious sailor, was yelling at us from the support boat: ‘Main off! Main off! Straighten up. Straighten up. Let it out, Charley, let it out; that red rope is your accelerator.’

We almost capsized; the boat coming round too quickly, the mainsail filling just as it had when we were training. Only this wasn’t training. The waves were slapping the hull and we were spinning around. Russ grabbed the tiller and we hauled the sail in hard. With the boat heeling all but right over, somehow we managed to save it.

‘Close one,’ Russ said as we got on course again.

‘Close? Close? Fucking hell, mate!’ I was really freaked out now. ‘Ten hours of this, and with the wind getting up this afternoon.’

‘We’ll be all right.’

‘No, we won’t, we’ll drown.’

It was more than daunting - it was absolutely miserable. I kept thinking of ten or more hours at sea in a boat that in my view shouldn’t be on anything bigger than a lake. Something could go very wrong. There were ships ahead and ships behind; there seemed to be ships all round us. We both knew we couldn’t get across on our own whilst avoiding the heavy shipping. The guys in the support boat knew it too. We did our best for a while then Glen and Rob took turns sitting in the bows, directing us.

With that little bit of guidance our confidence grew immeasurably, and with the sky clear above us, we were cutting through the waves. We had wind in the mainsail; the spinnaker fully powered and I couldn’t believe it when Lance yelled across to tell us we were halfway. Halfway! We’d only been going a couple of hours. ‘Shit, Russ,’ I said. ‘We might be able to make this.’

We’d left the English zone and were now in the ‘separation zone’: pretty soon we’d be into French waters. It was actually very enjoyable, though our hands were like prunes and freezing cold because we hadn’t thought to wear gloves. The time flew by, the wind was perfect and I forgot about everything and just concentrated on the sailing.

In the distance I could see sandy beaches, little towns hugging green hillsides. I saw a smile of satisfaction spread over Russ’s face.

‘How many people get to do this?’ he said again. ‘Sail the Channel in a twelve-foot boat?’

‘Not many,’ Rob piped up from the bows. ‘Between you and me it’s the first time I’ve done it, too.’

We could have sailed directly into Calais harbour but that would have taken another three hours so we headed due north for the beach. Terra firma, wow: I was elated. We’d done it; despite all my fears, my nerves, the way small boats had always freaked me out. We’d crossed the Channel in five hours. I danced on the sand. We all shook hands and I hugged Russ: he was jumping about, with elation but also because he needed a pee. With nowhere to go on the beach, he trotted up to the nearest house. A woman answered the door and peered suspiciously at him. It was our first encounter in a new country.

Russ, standing there in his rubber suit, gave her his best smile. ‘
Toilette s’il vous plaît, madame?
’

‘
Non
,’ she said, and shut the door in his face.

4

Black Tie and Bullet Holes

After the last few hectic days, we were looking forward to a leisurely drive to Paris. We’d arranged to borrow a classic Citroën DS from a wiry-looking guy called David, which he delivered on a curtain-sided trailer. It was a real gentleman’s car, way ahead of its time and very much in keeping with the next stage of the expedition. The plan was to drive it as far as Paris where we’d swap it for bicycles. We needed to reach the Gare de l’Est by nine o’clock that evening to catch the
Orient Express
to Venice.

Checking over the silver Citroën, I was confident we would make Paris in good time. Manufactured in 1969, it was in pristine condition, with smart leather upholstery, power steering, lights that turned with the steering and hydropneumatic self-levelling suspension. The bodywork had been designed by an Italian sculptor called Flaminio Bertoni. After the exertions of our Channel crossing yesterday, the car was right on the money.

From here on it would be just Russ, Mungo and me. I jumped in, Mungo piling into the back with his camera. Russ sat next to me, the map on his knees, ready to navigate. We said goodbye to Lucy, who was standing on the pavement waiting to see us off. Lucy Trujillo is our producer; she has worked on every one of my trips and is absolutely fantastic - completely unflappable in a crisis. She had been working on our visas with Jo and Lisa - always a complicated process on a trip like this. Apart from Iran, the only country we still needed visas for was Laos. A former French colony, it didn’t have an embassy in London but there was one in Paris, so Lucy was using this opportunity to go and get them. But for some strange reason she thought she would get there faster without us.

I got the car going, working out the semi-automatic gearbox and the little plastic button the Citroën had for the brakes. For the first mile or so it was a nightmare, the brakes so sensitive I almost had Russ through the windscreen. But this wasn’t a dinghy, it had an engine and I could work it out. Thinking back on yesterday’s boat trip, I realised it had been a mad idea. We were complete novices and the Channel had been so busy: a container ship would pass miles away and twenty minutes later we’d be rocked by massive waves from the wake. Thank God for the two guys from Laser - if they hadn’t been there I’m not sure we would have made it in ten hours, never mind the five we managed.

Halfway to Paris the Citroën conked out. We were cruising along discussing the expedition and looking forward to a night on the
Orient Express
, when the car started to splutter. Moments later the engine stopped and we rolled to a halt on the side of the busy dual carriageway.

‘It feels like fuel,’ I said, lifting the bonnet. ‘But the gauge says the tank’s half full.’

Russ got on the radio to David, the car’s owner, who was following in his van. ‘David,’ he said, ‘
la voiture est morte
.’

David pulled up and took a quick look. He fiddled about for a moment then twisted the key and the car fired into life.

I glanced a little sheepishly at Russ. ‘Didn’t you just know that would happen?’

Back behind the wheel I studied the fuel gauge. It was still reading half full. No problem there then.

I was soon back in my element. On this trip the journey itself was the real destination, and I couldn’t think of anything better than bimbling through France in this wonderful gentleman’s car. ‘This car was so advanced when they built it,’ I said. ‘The faster you go the stiffer the steering gets.’

There was a pregnant pause, then Russ said slowly, ‘The faster you go the stiffer it gets.’

‘The
steering
, Russ.’ I shook my head sadly. ‘You know, I drove an old Le Mans Jag from Italy to London once; one of those massive soft-tops with a fin on the back. All the way through France people were honking and waving and whenever I stopped they’d crowd around the car.’

Russ was nodding. ‘There’s something personal about old cars; they’ve got a soul, haven’t they?’

‘Especially when they break down,’ Mungo muttered.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘people were all over it all the way to Dover.’

‘What happened at Dover?’

‘A lorry driver spat on me.’

Russ took a call from Lucy, then turned to me with a smile. ‘Lucy arrived in Paris about forty minutes before the embassy closed. There was a massive queue for taxis outside the station.’

‘What did she do?’

‘Rented a limo.’

‘She did what?’

‘She didn’t have a choice. It was either queue for ever or take the only form of transport available. She made it to the embassy with five minutes to spare then begged them to process the application. She told them she’d come from London by boat, train and car and they took pity on her. She’s got to hang around for three hours but she’ll get the visas.’

Good old Luce. We were sorted. Now we just had to work out how to get in. We’d originally planned to enter Laos from the north, after crossing from Nepal to Tibet and then into China. But back in March the Chinese closed the Tibetan border and it looked as though it would stay that way until after the Olympics.

‘We’ll have to think about it nearer the time,’ Russ said. ‘There doesn’t seem to be an option right now though; except maybe trying to go through Burma as tourists.’

Mungo didn’t look convinced. ‘With all this camera gear?’ he said. ‘Somehow I don’t think they’ll go for it.’

Twenty minutes later the Citroën lost power and the engine died again: we were on the motorway now and the closer we got to Paris the busier it was becoming.

David drove past and pulled over. It was too dangerous for him to back up so Russ jumped out and pushed the car to the van. We had the bonnet up again and David cleaned the fuel filter: the car started and off we went again.

The third time it stopped we were in sight of the city: the Eiffel Tower in the distance with blocks of ugly flats defining the sprawl of the suburbs. We were still on the motorway and I managed to glide the car to a slip road and drift down to the exit on the brakes. ‘Fuck, this is wild,’ I said. ‘It’s the last place you want to break down.’

We pulled over and got out. Russ looked at his watch. ‘It’s getting late,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to be at the station by nine o’clock and still we have to cycle from your niece’s place. I think we’ll have to load the Citroën onto the trailer.’

David took another look. He thought it had to be petrol. The gauge still said half-full but we couldn’t think of anything else so between the four of us we loaded it onto the trailer. The van only had three seats and the back was separated off by a panel: with David driving one of us would be back there with no windows, hunched on the chipboard floor.

‘Rock, paper, scissors,’ Russ said. ‘Mungo, are you ready? One, two, three, go.’

Mungo lost.

‘You’re in the back, mate,’ Russ told him.

‘No, he’s not,’ I interrupted. ‘He can’t sit in the back, Russ: he’s the cameraman.’

With Russ squatting on the bags we headed into Paris. David pulled into the first petrol station we came to and filled the Citroën as it sat on the trailer. I got behind the wheel and it started first time. Basically, we had run out of petrol, which was a bit embarrassing.