Final day and arrival

It’s a sunny spring Saturday in North London. I woke up at 7am but didn’t get out of bed. Instead I lay there - half of my mind dozing, half looping over the same topics and worries that started squatting in my head since hitting land. At some point, Mouse - the ever cheerful, affectionate and energetic (some might say hyperactive) German Shorthaired Pointer - sprung onto my bed and bounced about like Bambi at a Scooter rave. 

At 9am I decided some activity was due so slumped into the kitchen to make an Aeropress coffee. I took Mouse for a stroll in the little park; an elderly Irish gent with a ginger cockapoo laid out his theory of veterinary extortion to me; I went to the physio to help my perpetually bad back; bought some ingredients in Waitrose (upgrading from Tesco Metro for the weekend); put on a spag bol and am now sat on the sofa with the dog and a glass of wine.

It’s been 5 weeks since we landed in that muddy, jungle river in Cayenne. When we first got back to the real world people asked about our arrival, the final hours, how it felt to step ashore, our first meal. Now, I’m asked whether I’m ‘back to normal’ or ‘in the swing of things’. These are all well meaning questions, to which I’ve got in the habit of responding ‘pretty much!’ or ‘getting there!’ - but the truth is more nuanced and a part of me hopes I’ll never fully revert to ‘normal’.

A close friend told me that he enjoyed the blog but it lacked closure and finality - this seems a fair comment given the previous entry was a week before arrival. So, I’m writing a final entry - or maybe two - in an attempt to share my memories from the final stages of the journey and to conduct some post-row navel gazing from the dry, motionless and cosy armchair of ‘normal life’.

It’s been tough to get the impetus to write. I dislike opening my laptop outside of work and find handwriting a chore. So, as I did on-board, I’m writing in Notes on my iPhone (with aeroplane mode on to simulate having no signal!). Certainly not the optimal choice but there’s a familiarity about it that has helped me over the hump to beginning. Hopefully, it works out and I manage to convey an honest reflection of the experience and my various musings.

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The final few days were fast, hot, tough and awash with a nervous excitement that verged on agitation. The currents from the Amazonian Fan - an underwater landscape of mountains and valleys - ripped us to the North and we had to row hard to keep our course and avoid being pulled passed the river mouth, which held our final destination. At only four degrees above the equator, the sun beat down, making daytime naps in the cabin all but impossible. Drenchings from the waves washed our sweat soaked bodies and was as much a relief from the heat as the pest it had been to date. There was an obsession with calculating arrival time - down to the hour - as we tried to catch the incoming tide up the river. A free for all on snacks was declared and we largely subsisted on Haribo Tanfastic, Mars Bars and Double Deckers. The batteries were fried, giving only 50% capacity at max charge - just enough for the autohelm but not enough to make water. So we pumped water manually multiple times a day.

Exhaustion had seeped in; our minds were scattered and worn and we were physically weak (it turned out we’d each lost 10-20kg of bodyweight). But experience, ‘rowing muscles’ and the rhythm of life onboard had also become part of us. Despite the circumstances, we found our resolve and encouraged each other on. This was not some chest beating, He-Man antics but a testament to camaraderie and the innate human ability to dig deeper than your imagination says you can go. In Stef’s words, ‘it’s amazing what you can do when there’s no option to quit’.

As the 12-hour mark approached, we planned the remaining shifts. The boat was hitting top speed and in a spurt of enthusiasm, we decided to attempt the river even if the tide was against us. The light faded and I went into the bow for a final rest; my mind contorted with conflicting emotions. Excitement, pride and relief butted heads with the anxiety and melancholy at the thought of leaving our little tribe and ocean home behind. 

An hour passed and through my semi-conscious doze I thought I must be dreaming. Out came the familiar, authoritative call - ‘put on your harness, we need support on deck!’. What? This is the home stretch, what’s going on? ‘Johnnie - respond! We need support on deck now!’.  ‘Yes - roger! I’m putting on my harness, with you in 30 seconds’. Was this a prank?

As I scrambled out for one last time, the boys peppered me with context and instructions. It was no prank. Apparently, across 7000km of ocean we had not yet seen it all.  I setup the rarely used bow rowing position behind a fraught and tired looking Stef who sat in mid. He was towards the end of his shift so had already been rowing for almost 3 hours. It was a moonless night and I could see the far off lights of French Guiana. Dirk stood gripping the hand steering lines, legs bent and bracing against the bucking boat. Apparently the autohelm had given out. I could see his intense concentration as his face flicked from the glow of the backup, handheld GPS and the horizon.

I tried to put in a stroke but the oar held fast in the water. With all the force my legs and back could muster, I slowly heaved the oars. I could see Stef straining just as much. ‘Ok mate - something’s not right, I’ll shout the stroke! Ready? And PULL!’. We hauled together. ‘And PULL!’ We grunted and wheezed and gave our best war cries. It must have sounded like a low-brow CrossFit gym. We slowly made progress, it can’t have been more than 10 strokes per minute. Then, after 20 minutes or so, whooooosh. Back to normal rowing. I exhaled and panted. ‘Pass me the piss bottle’, said Stef.

This continued on and off for about 5 hours. Stef and I couldn’t step off the oars as we’d immediately spin about and, incredibly, Dirk didn’t move from operating as helmsman and navigator. We’ve since been asked many times, ‘did you ever think you weren’t going to make it?’. For me, this was it. Two months in and with land in sight, it’s the closest I came to thinking we were finished. We’re still not sure what caused these patches of “heavy water” but have guessed we were being pulled adrift by eddies caused by the massive outflow from the distant river mouth. 

Eventually, the mysterious patches of current became less frequent and about 15 miles offshore, they ceased. Maybe the tides had turned - literally. Stef and Dirk had been on shift for almost 8 hours with next to no food. We shoved down some KitKats and Double Deckers and Stef went to the aft to check the charts and recuperate a little.

Our target waypoint was the start of the marked channel into the Mahury River. Dirk did a phenomenal job of steering us in using the handheld GPS to pinpoint the spot. There was a final moment of jeopardy as we approached and then - according to the GPS - arrived exactly on target. But where were the markers? The boat pointed in all directions as Dirk loosened the steering to pick-up the device and check we’d programmed it correctly. Then a bright flash came from starboard. We’d somehow not seen the 2-metre square concrete block that held the white strobe light and were an oars length from ploughing into it. With some desperately quick strokes and lighting steering from Dirk we cleared it by inches. The second time within a few hours that I thought we were finished.

After this little drama we got back to it and  - once again - we rowed on. Once we’d found the marked channel the intensity eased up. There were two islands offshore from the river mouth that took an eternity to pass. Each time we turned around to sight, they were there: not too close, not too far. It went on like that for what seemed like hours. Eventually, we did pass them and then we were truly on the home stretch. Now we could see not just lights but buildings. Everything began approaching faster and faster. Suddenly, not just buildings but gardens, verandas, windows. And then we were in the river.

Throughout the crossing the water had been clear at the surface but sunk down into a dark and rich midnight blue. At 100 miles offshore, it switched to emerald green.  Now, by the white LEDs of the nav light we could make out an opaque, brown slop that washed oversized leaves and branches and unidentified detritus passed us.  The red and green channel was wide and clearly marked - as it was designed for cargo ships - but nevertheless we struggled to keep our course. The currents pulled us in every direction except up the river and our tired minds struggled to compensate with the rowing and steering. 

Once we were a mile or so up river we saw some bright white lights. At first we thought it was our marina - hurrah! - but soon realised the marina was moving towards us pretty quickly and was stacked high with shipping containers. The VHF crackled to life then started ribbeting away in French. Dirk and I were rowing and Stef hand steering, so only Stef could see the fast approaching container ship. None of us could leave positions for fear of drifting directly on course. Our shortage of formal nautical training was laid bare in our sleep deprived minds and we started to debate whether we should pass port to port or starboard to starboard. The VHF crackled with increasing enthusiasm: ribbet-ribbet, RIBBET-RIBBET. This didn’t do much for Stef’s nerves as he was the one holding the steering lines.

Eventually, I made a dash for the VHF, leaving Dirk to power the oars enough to keep us on course. The ship was now close enough that I could have communicated in sign language but instead opted for a VHF message along the lines of, “we’re going to pass port to port; I hope that’s the right; if not, you’re the one with the engine, please don’t hit us”. The friendly captain replied in perfect English and steamed on passed us with 20 metres to spare.

Shortly after, the water went dead flat. Then started to flow upriver. We were being pulled; on flat water. It felt serene. Rolling motion had impregnated our being. We rolled as we rowed, we rolled as we ate, we rolled as we slept and we rolled as we dreamt. Now she was still; as though we’d been paused. But there was forward motion as we moved, rushed even, on the incoming tide. The fatigue faded; we took big, leisurely strokes and giggled at the ease of it. More lights, more jungle, more moored boats. We rowed on, elated now but suspicious still that there may be a final test ahead.

At last, we saw our planned waypoint - an industrial looking river dock. Bright floodlights illuminated clouds of dust surrounding a cargo ship. It was having some sort of powder poured into it’s hull from a chute (fertiliser Stef reckoned - but who knows, it could have been something more valuable, this was a South American jungle after all). From the charts we’d estimated our marina was less than half a mile passed the dock. It was close. We sniffed deeply at the jungle air as we passed the cargo ship.

Then darkness again as the floodlights faded. We could see two small lights ahead, was that the marina? But surely there’d be more signs of life than this, even at 3am. We gazed further upriver - nothing but pure black and some stars. This must be it. As we closed in we saw a little more. Some boats? Was that a bridge? I took the oars, Stef steered and Dirk jumped up to ready the mooring lines and look out. This was really it. 

Visibility was near nil. The lights we’d seen were actually onshore and the nothing else was lit. Suddenly, Dirk could see the shapes of boats more clearly and spotted what he thought would serve as a berth. The fast current pulled us away and up the river so I rowed hard to hold position. Dirk started shouting observations and ideas as they came, “ok, I think there’s a spot behind this boat, if we can do a full turn we should be able to tuck in behind, Johnnie row gently until I tell you then hard starboard. Yes! - there’s room, ok gently - shit! - STARBOARD STARBOARD!”. The plan was concocted, communicated enacted in one breath! Our fine manoeuvring skills hadn’t got much practice on the ocean but we somehow pulled it off with only the daintiest slam into the pontoon.

Slightly panicked that we’d drift back into the river Dirk hopped off and held the line from the aft. The bow did start to drift out. As I pulled in the oars, Stef stepped onto the pontoon and made a move for the bow but immediately fell to his knees. “Mate, stop cocking about! If we lose the end it’s going to be a real faff!” . . . . “I can’t walk!”. . . . “Don’t be a prat, I’ll do it, I’m getting off”.  I stepped onto the rickety slats of the pontoon and almost stumbled straight off the other side. I put my arms out to balance but the pontoon felt as though it was swinging like a rope bridge and my feet like they were encased in concrete. I stomped and stumbled all over the place, eventually hit one knee and crawled to the bow line. 

Stef and I thought this was brilliant and cracked up laughing at our situation. Fortunately, Dirk had managed to get aboard and threw me the bow line. I tied it off, rather messily. This wasn’t the time for well-dressed knots. We’d bloody done it.

So, how did it feel? Like passing your driving test? Getting a promotion? Your first kiss? Playing the Pyramid Stage with your favourite band? Starting for Wales? Scoring the winning try in the final minute? Getting released from prison? 

Maybe - but it was so much more. It was deep and layered and complex and confused but light and stark and honest and hilarious. Elation, disbelief, pride, exhaustion. It was like being part of the ultimate in-joke but even from the inside we didn’t quite get it.

We fell about on our heavy legs, caught each other before falling in, laughed, hugged then lay on the floor with our heads together to make a star. And there we stayed. In our desolate jungle “marina” - not more than a few wooden pontoons, some ramshackle old boats and less life than village graveyard.

Then a sound - not something we’d particularly missed - familiar but uncomfortably out of place, like spotting your grandma in the gents of your local pub.  Stef’s phone rang. It was the BBC. We’re not quite sure how they timed this so well or even where they got Stef’s number (as we’d be speaking to them via sat phone) but we got slotted straight in to Rick and Rachel’s Breakfast show. Stef led the charge on what turned out to be a rambling, hilarious, sleep addled, live radio splurge. I’ve not yet listened back but have been told that Stef was “radio gold”.

As the night wore on, we stayed in our spot on the wooden pontoon. Spirits were understandably high but the massive row was also taking its toll. We started to feel damn hungry. Dirk somehow managed to stomach a dehydrated chicken tikka but Stef and I outright refused, saying we’d starve until we got the chance to get a cold beer and something that didn’t require hydrating! Much Google Maps searching led us to discover that we were genuinely in the middle of the jungle and the closest shop (which was closed) was at a least a few hours walk.

With our chances of real food and a beer snubbed out we were at a bit of a loss. Our phones were squeaking and dinging and pinging with 2 months of inactivity but after speaking to our families we cast them aside. Then from the carpark across from the pontoon we heard crunching gravel and saw headlights pan across the fence. We got up to hobble and wobble the few hundred metres to the security gate. And there he was!  We’d never met or even seen a photo of Luis but we knew it was him. His stocky outline filled the gate, beaming smile filled his face and beer filled his arms!

Luis was the representative of our logistics sponsor Ian Taylor and he’d travelled for over two days to meet us upon arrival. And what a welcome.  He’d brought us a whole case of cold beers and an XL pizza each.  The three of us precariously clambered around the spikes and barbed wire of the security gate to reach our prize. There were big hugs and patted backs all round before we cracked open a beer. Us Welsh contingent were on our third before the Southern Hemisphere lot had said cheers, and that set the tone for the remainder of the night. 

After the early hours had passed by, Luis returned to his hotel and we went back to the pontoon as we didn’t yet have accommodation. But this was fine.  As Dirk headed to a cabin to sleep, Stef and I gave each other a knowing nod, sighed and got set for the final nightshift. We’d all trained for years for the row but, as school friends, Stef and I had trained a lifetime for this. As night turned to day and the sun rose above the misty jungle we slumped, exhausted onto the slatted pontoon. A tired hand flopped into the big bag of beer and searched around, to no avail. The beers were gone. 

And with that, we completed our final, successful nightshift and the Forget Me Knot expedition reached it’s glorious end.