by Jimi Hunt
I took the leftover cake to work the next day because I sure as hell wasn’t eating it all myself—it would kill me. I had an interview that day with Erin, who wrote articles for a blog about Auckland issues called ‘Concrete Playground’. I was grateful that she had agreed to write an article about Lilo. I gave her a slice of cake, but she couldn’t cope with the overload of sugar. We chatted for an hour or so, and as it happens I liked her Lilo article best. Here is the opening paragraph, with thanks to Erin:
Waiting in Jimi Hunt’s office for an interview is a little disconcerting. Maybe it’s because his office desk looks like it was, in a former life, a polar bear or one of Jamiroquai’s hats. Maybe it’s the true-to-size spacesuit, poised motionless and vacant, staring at me. While waiting for Hunt’s entrance, which no doubt will be theatrical, I’m studying a decadent, pink-frosted homemade cake that seems to have been force-fed every candy bar available in the New World checkout line. I silently prepare myself for an interview that I assume will consist of non sequiturs and nonsensical colloquy while taking in this kaleidoscopic dreamscape of various colours and textures, and I’m starting to think it wouldn’t be that bizarre if Jimi was actually inside the spacesuit.
You can read the rest at auckland.concreteplayground.co.nz. I liked her writing: it was silly, like me, and I thought it was much more entertaining than the Waikato Times article that called me fat. This article made me smile—nothing else was making me smile at the time, so, once again, thanks, Erin.
CLAIM THAT SHIT AND ASK FOR HELP
Life continued and I wanted to move on from Jo as quickly as possible, so I was still going out all the time. Jo and I had hundreds of mutual friends and I felt that no one was taking sides. Actually, it made me angry that people weren’t taking my side. So I decided I needed all new friends, lots of them, and right now.
Out with my sister one night, which is something I don’t usually do, I started talking to one of her friends. I’d known Jess since she was about 11 but never really talked to her. Bluntness had worked well for me in the past and I wasn’t going to stop now, so I said to her, ‘I need more friends, so if you’re doing anything, going anywhere, I would like to come’.
‘Cool,’ she said. ‘On Tuesday night some friends of mine are having a dinner party at their place—would you like to come?’
‘Yes. Yes I would.’
She gave me the address and told me to be there at 7 pm.
As is my habit, I was there bang on time. Just as I was getting out of the car I got a phone call from Jess. ‘Sorry, Jimi, I’m running really late, you can wait for me or you can go in on your own.’
I didn’t mind going in alone so I wandered in through the back door as instructed. Eight faces looked up at me with uneasy surprise.
‘Hi, I’m Jimi, the guy you don’t know that’s coming to dinner.’
Not a problem, I was welcomed in with open arms. I then proceeded to hijack the entire night with stories of woe and tales of Lilo—sorry, guys. They were intrigued, but more importantly and awesomely, they offered to help.
Wow. People I had only known for one night were offering to help me organise this Lilo thing. That was great and probably saved my bacon. I was only two months out from the event and I really hadn’t done anything—Jo’s departure had overtaken my life and I hadn’t done anything about the nuts and bolts of Lilo. No matter. After that night we had a decent-sized organising committee.
The committee was headed by Dan Drupsteen, whom I’d met just a couple of months earlier. Jo and I had gone out to a friend’s party and Dan was there, too. We looked at each other and put two and two together because we shared a good friend, Mark Barber. Mark had often said to me, ‘You should meet my friend Dan. You two would get on really well.’ He had obviously been saying the same thing to Dan about me. Although we both grew up in Auckland, since then neither Dan nor I had lived in the same town at the same time, until then.
‘We’re supposed to be friends,’ I said when we were introduced.
‘We should catch up for a coffee this week then,’ said Dan. That was it. We were off on a journey together. Now Dan was helping me with Lilo. We had enlisted Jess, Rachel, Charlie, Fleur and Tom from the dinner. Another girl I met out one night, called Fritha, was a helping whirlwind of awesomeness. Plus, of course, there was Mark Boyce. He was reliably on my side. I actually began to feel as if we had some momentum. I felt as if this might work.
Then I got a call from Matt Chisholm, the television guy I’d met at the wedding. His producer at Close Up had turned down the story, for a very simple reason—they don’t do stories about things that are going to happen, they do stories about things that have happened. But I needed publicity now and Matt was my chance to put the message out to the nation.
I felt that now I had a cause and something to raise awareness for, it wasn’t just about me making it down the river. Now I had to make it down the river and make a lot of noise about it so that people took notice of my message. That gave me something new to worry about, when I was seriously worrying about how the hell I was going to pay for the adventure. I really needed Close Up to do the story, so I asked Matt what could be done. He said that maybe if I did something interesting now that they could film I could also talk about the upcoming Lilo The Waikato.
My mind quickly clicked into gear. ‘I’ve got it,’ I said to Matt.
‘I’m sure you guys will want to come and film my training!’
‘What do you do for training?’
‘I paddle my Lilo to Rangitoto Island and back,’ I replied. Matt was impressed; he said he would take it to his producer and get back to me. Later that day I got a phone call, and the following Tuesday morning they were going to film me training and telling my story. There was a catch though. They wanted to interview Jo and they wouldn’t do the story without her in it.
I agreed because I needed the coverage, and if Jo had to be included to get me on television then so be it. The worst part about it was pretty obvious. I had just found out that my wife had cheated on me and I had to go and ask her for a favour. I sucked it up, went down to the gym and asked her to help. I hated doing it. But to her eternal credit, she said she’d help because she knew what it meant to me. Jo knew I needed to do this.
The following Tuesday I was standing on Narrow Neck Beach in Devonport dressed in my Lilo uniform, looking towards Rangitoto Island. Funnily enough, I had grown up at Narrow Neck and had looked across to Rangitoto a million times before, but I’d only been to the island once, with my father when I was 12.
This time, I’d done my homework on Google maps and established that I’d have to paddle 3.75 kilometres across the harbour to get there. Surely I could paddle that far? I’d floated 3.75 kilometres down a river before: surely I could paddle 3.75 kilometres across the harbour? I had been training to paddle, but I had failed to mention to Matt that I had never done this before. In fact, I had failed to mention that I had not done any training on a Lilo . . . none at all.
Being honest, I was a little scared. But I like putting myself to the test by saying I can do something and having to do it so I don’t look like a dick. No matter what happened, I was going to make it to Rangitoto, even if it took me eight hours. The team from Close Up had hired a boat to follow me so that Matt could interview me from the water. Dave was supposed to be coming, too, as my support crew, taking photos of my fear and holding my clothes, but, unfortunately, the boat was too small for him to be able to come with us.
I got in the water and started paddling. The wind was behind me—that was good. The skipper of the boat had told the others I was an idiot because the tide was coming in and would drag me up the harbour, plus I had to cross the shipping lane. I didn’t care. I was off. I kept a steady rhythm, punctuated by Matt leaning out of the boat and asking me questions. The wind was strong, creating quite choppy waves.
I fell off. Then I fell off again. I was paddling as many strokes sideways as forward. Matt told me I had been paddling for 45 minu
tes; I looked back and Narrow Neck Beach was far off in the distance behind me. Unfortunately, Rangitoto was far off in the distance in front of me. Still, it gave me comfort and encouragement that I was more or less halfway and I didn’t feel too bad.
Then, just as I was starting to get tired, I hit the shipping lane. The wind was making it hard to stay on the Lilo and the current was pulling me up the harbour. I dug in, and after two hours’ paddling I made it to the island. It had been a lot harder than the 3.75 kilometres floating down a river.
Matt interviewed me again on the island. When we had finished he said to me, ‘You’ve never paddled here for training, have you?’
‘Nope.’
‘Would you like a lift back?’
‘Yes, Matt, yes I very much would.’
Next stop was my house where they interviewed me about depression. We talked about how it had affected me, Jo, our relationship, and the rest of my life. It took a long time: I think I may have talked to Matt for about two hours with the camera running. We talked about everything—well, almost everything. I was very open about my depression and how it had affected my marriage. It was hard, but I wasn’t ashamed, because it was my story. Talking about Jo was the hardest bit. It made me cry. As soon as that happened I knew they would use it. Awesome, I’m going to be seen crying on national television.
After the interview was over, it was time to head to the gym to film the bit I dreaded most—working out and interviewing Jo. When we got to the gym, Jo took me aside and told me she didn’t want to do it. She was worried that it wouldn’t look good, for her or me. Fair enough. I understood. But if she didn’t do it they wouldn’t run the story. I didn’t want her in it anyway, so I went to Matt and said that she didn’t want to do it.
He wasn’t happy, but I knew that we had a day’s worth of excellent footage and a good story that, even without Jo, was worth showing. Matt had a chat to her; in the end, he talked her into being in the footage, coaching me but not actually being interviewed. That seemed like a fair compromise.
It was supposed to be on television the following day, but the story got bumped because a Hamilton kid had stolen 30 ecstasy pills from her dad, taken them to school and handed them out to all her mates. A day later than planned, my five-minute story was played at 7 pm on TVNZ. I watched it at home with Dave. Sure enough, they showed me crying. Apart from that I thought everything about it was awesome. They had done a great job and told a great story.
I started getting texts and emails. Mostly, ‘Why the hell is Jo in the Close Up story?!?!?!?!’ The rest were overwhelmingly positive messages of support. What I realised was that I had hidden my depression from almost everyone for the last couple of years and this was like a coming out. Everybody who knew me now knew what I had been through. Not only had Close Up made a perfect five-minute summary of my story, my story had connected with people throughout the country.
JIMI’S LESSON #10: Claim that shit. Then work really hard to make it happen.
The next morning I opened my computer to find this email from someone I didn’t know. They wanted to remain anonymous so I will only reproduce it in part:
I only caught the end of the article about you on Close Up, but I will watch it if they put it on their website. I just wanted to say good on you, and you made me laugh for the first time today, perhaps in a while really.
Life’s been pretty challenging for me over the last five years with 3 major life events, and now, living at the quake epicenter [in Christchurch] has kind of tipped things for me. I don’t know that I’m depressed, just really struggling. So thanks. I admire your courage, I don’t know about your Lilo colour choice though ;-) You’ve made me think about going to talk to someone, so that’s damn good work on your part, cos I am pretty self sufficient. And I don’t normally write emails to pink Lilo toters!!
I had helped someone. They were actually going to go and talk to someone and ask for help, and they were going to do it because I had simply told my story on television. That was worth a Yaaahoooo. Then I started to get more emails coming through, including an email from Matt asking if I wanted Close Up to forward the emails that had been sent to them. ‘Yes please!’ I certainly did, and with that came a deluge of about 50 emails.
Matt had worked hard to sell my story to the producers, but at first no one in the office had thought it was a good idea. They thought I was just an idiot acting like an idiot. He was proud to tell me that everyone in the office loved the piece and it was one of the best-received pieces that he had worked on.
All the emails were positive, except for one, from a guy called Gavin, which I am prepared to share with you:
What a plonker setting a very bad example by not wearing a lifejacket. Good on him for taking up the challenge but he needs to be waring a lifejacket for his own safety and to set a good example to others.
I wasn’t wearing a lifejacket, true . . . but I am a decent swimmer, I was on a flotation device and I did have a boat next to me the entire way. Plus, it’s hard to paddle ‘waring’ a lifejacket. Even so, Gavin’s words hit a chord with me. Before, it was all about me, but now it was about raising awareness for depression and I was doing something publicly. Gavin was right, I did need to set a better example. I needed to find a lifejacket suitable for paddling. So thank you, Gavin.
I was still going out, trying to make new friends and keep myself busy, but mostly I was throwing myself into Lilo—it was the only thing keeping me sane. I had a goal and I was going to make it, no matter what was going on in the rest of my life. I’d become friends with a guy called Adnan who was an account manager for Facebook in New Zealand. Adnan had loved the whole Lilo concept and had been helping organise behind the scenes. He had taken it upon himself to apply to head office for some free advertising on Facebook to help get the message out about my mission. He had done it on a whim, because he believed in what I was doing. Apparently, Facebook never gives away free advertising to anyone, so it was a massive surprise when we received a bunch of Facebook ad credits. Awesome. If you were a friend of someone who had already liked Lilo, a Facebook ad was coming your way. ‘Like’ me, goddammit! And people did—the number increased.
Liam, a mutual friend of Dan’s and mine, turned up to a Lilo committee meeting to see if he could help. He never came to another meeting, but at that meeting we were talking about getting more exposure for Lilo.
‘My flatmate hosts the breakfast show on George FM,’ said Liam. ‘I’ll tell him to have you on.’
‘Ha. Okay. Thanks, Liam.’
Three days later I was sitting in the studio at George FM being interviewed by Nick D and Dean Campbell. They thought it was so hilarious that I stayed on for two segments.
I went back to my office and saw that more people had liked the Facebook page. The phone rang. It was Kimberly from DraftFCB, a massive advertising and PR agency in Auckland. Kimberly specialised in healthcare advertising and someone at the agency had heard me on George FM. They were pleased that John Kirwan and the depression.org.nz website had been my inspiration because they had been actively involved in developing the online self-help programme for depression.org.nz. Kimberly was offering to help me too. Yahoo! I went in and met Kimberly and Eloise, who offered to do what they could to make sure that everyone heard about Lilo The Waikato.
I hadn’t realised how many people listen to the George FM breakfast show. Heaps of people contacted me offering help and I started getting calls from other stations wanting interviews. Things were working out perfectly. It was all so well timed with Lilo only two weeks away!
I wanted Lilo to be documented properly, unlike all my previous adventures. As I’ve mentioned, when I first proposed the idea on Facebook, a small production company had offered to come and film me, for free. I was happy with that, but as discussions moved along they told me they expected me to cover the costs of insurance and hiring filming equipment.
I had been busy dealing with my messed-up life and had let this situation drift. I had not raised a
ny money for the expedition. So, with a week to go, we came to a consensus that we wouldn’t be filming the adventure after all. Instead, we would take a bunch of photos and shoot some video and cobble something together ourselves for the website. This actually made me quite sad.
Then, on the Monday morning before go time, heading out of the house to catch the bus to work, I started talking to Kim. She’s my next-door neighbour and, if the timing worked out, I’d cadge a ride in her car. We chatted, as we usually do, and I told her about what had happened with the documentary crew and how I felt let down.
Kim is the head writer for Shortland Street and I could almost hear her brain ticking over. ‘I know a guy,’ she said. ‘Well, I don’t really know him. I’ve never met him, but I think he would be perfect for this. He’s mad, just like you. You two will get on perfectly. His name is Luke Nola, just look him up and give him a call.’
I sat at my desk at work thinking, ‘Should I ring some guy I’ve never met and ask him if he can film my documentary?’ I turned to my helpful friend Google and quickly found his production company. I gave him a call but got an answering machine so I left a message telling him what I was planning. Then I went to the toilet—I’d already consumed a litre of water, like I’m supposed to.
I got back to my desk to see that I had missed a call and a voicemail, which went something like this: ‘Wow! Jimi, that sounds awesome. I’d love to have a chat to you about that. Cool. Give me a call back.’ I could tell that Luke was excited. I was excited that he was excited. I called him straight back and we chatted for a while about what I was doing, what I had done and whether he would like to come along and film the adventure.
Luke could produce the film and he said he would see if his mate Simon, who is a director, could come along with his camera to shoot the film. Yahoo. ‘But Luke, I don’t have any money.’
