A Bit Mental

by Jimi Hunt

  People had been lovely all along the river, and it was encouraging to hear from all the people on Float Day, too, who said how much this adventure had helped them. One guy told me he had brought his friend out onto the river with us because he knew his friend was suffering from depression and needed to get out, get in the sun, do some cool things, meet some new people and have a good time. His friend hadn’t wanted to come, as is common for people with depression, but he was now super happy he had been dragged along by his friend.

  Everyone stopped in at Days Park as the Float Day came to an end but I had to keep going. It felt like everyone had left the party and now I was left to clean up by myself. I started paddling as fast as I could. I felt as if I needed to get a move on because I still had a long way to go that day.

  Further on down the river I met a ski boat. The people recognised me and offered to tow me a bit of the way. The skier got in the boat and they dropped the tow line over for me. I flew along at a rate of knots for a minute or two before I blew another Lilo. There wasn’t much these guys could do for me so I swam to shore and they continued on their merry way.

  I called Michiel. More wasted time. Michiel is a good man. Whenever I needed a new Lilo, there he would be, and he’d already have it blown up and ready to go. I grabbed the Lilo and jumped back in the water and on my way.

  I paddled fast, as fast as I could. Up ahead I saw a woman floating on a queen-sized air mattress. I pulled up beside her and introduced myself. She knew who I was. In fact, she was making her way home to Ngaruawahia from the Float Day. In the crowd on the water I hadn’t seen her earlier. I told her I was heading to Ngaruawahia, too.

  On my Lilo, which is a lot easier to paddle than a giant mattress, and with my paddling speed, I’d calculated I wouldn’t be getting to Ngaruawahia until about 7 pm. I was worried about my friend’s chances so I advised her to get out and call someone to come and pick her up. She agreed that might be a good idea. Before we parted company, she was kind enough to offer me a place to stay. I thanked her but declined the offer because I already had accommodation organised at the Marae. I paddled on, and my calculations had been correct. I reached Ngaruawahia near as damn it to 7 pm.

  As soon as I was out of the water I was told, ‘The Marae can’t take us anymore.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Not sure. They just said they can’t.’

  Where could we stay? Mattress Lady had told me her address. I could remember the street name and there are only about two roads in Ngaruawahia so I thought I’d be able to find her place. Although I’d forgotten her street number my first guess was right and she greeted us with open arms.

  I needed a shower so we went inside and cleaned up. She told us the house was from Remuera in Auckland and had been imported to Ngaruawahia, a small town of about 5000 people where life can be hard.

  Next, we needed to go and get some dinner. We headed to the Ngaruawahia Tavern, which looked scary—it looked like the pub from Once Were Warriors.

  We were still outside when a woman stumbled up to the bus. She was drunk as she could be. She admired my wetsuit, and asked if she could have it. After about 15 minutes of hilarious conversation she started trying to take my wetsuit off me but couldn’t really sort herself out enough to succeed.

  Her friends turned up, apologised for her behaviour and took her into the pub. She was probably safer in there than wandering out on the streets by herself. I was a city guy in Ngaruawahia, wearing a bow tie and a captain’s hat, and it was time for me to enter the local pub. I knew it was going to be interesting and I was worried I might get stabbed.

  Michiel and Pip followed me in. Pip had a camera rolling, so that she would be able to identify my killers and avenge my death! I walked up to the bar, ordered the manliest drink for me—a lemonade—and a beer each for Pip and Michiel. Having learnt that the admirer of my wetsuit was at the pub on a Sunday to celebrate her friend’s birthday, I asked the bartender what the birthday girl usually drank. ‘Crate bottles of Steiny,’ was the reply. So, my dear lady, a large bottle of Steinlager as well, thanks.

  I walked over to the party to talk to the locals. ‘Happy birthday,’ I said and offered the birthday girl the bottle. She didn’t smile. Instead she looked over at her partner. He was a large man, mid-forties, wearing a black singlet and wraparound sunglasses, tattoos down both arms, classic mullet, and he had the look of someone who has done some things. He looked at me—well, I think he looked my way through his dark glasses. He tilted his head back and nodded and smiled: ‘Thanks.’ She smiled and thanked me too, and I made my escape back to my crew. Phew.

  There were sixteen people in the pub at 7.30 pm and the sun was still streaming in through the window. That didn’t stop the disco lights from darting around the room while people sang karaoke. One man seemed to be the leader—if no one else was singing a song, he would. Several songs went by and I hadn’t seen him look at the screen for lyrics yet. A couple of other people sang, and I felt I needed to sing a song too. I can’t sing for nuts but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I riffled through the playlist and found it wasn’t exactly my genre. Then I found ‘Everyday People’ covered by Arrested Development. It’s a hip-hop/RnB song that I love and pretty much know. It was my only choice. I waited my turn.

  ‘Jimi,’ the call came from up front. ‘You’re up.’

  I walked up to the stage and got the microphone. As I turned around, a woman who looked as if she could rip me in two introduced herself to me. ‘My name’s Sunny, we’re gonna sing a duet, aye.’

  ‘Sure, Sunny.’

  So there we were, Sunny with her arm around me, singing ‘Everyday People’ as the sun set on Sunday at the Ngaruawahia Tavern.

  When we’d finished, a guy walked up and introduced himself. ‘Hi, my name’s Hammer. We’re gonna do a duet too.’

  ‘Sure, Hammer, that sounds great.’

  Hammer and I proceeded to belt out a horrifying version of ‘Outlook for Thursday’ by DD Smash as neither of us could actually sing. Afterwards, Pip, Michiel and I ordered some dinner, ate up and headed back to Mattress Lady’s house.

  JIMI’S LESSON #13: Preconceptions are probably wrong.

  I imagine some nights at the Ngaruawahia Tavern are pretty rough, and I wouldn’t take my mother there next time we’re driving past. But here’s the thing: I was wrong about the people there. Everyone in there looked scary as hell but they were having more fun, more good times, more good chats, than the people in most Auckland bars I have been in. And they were lovely to me. They were welcoming and included me in their night of fun. I will go back there again some time.

  DAY NINE: NGARUAWAHIA TO RANGIRIRI

  We got up and cooked our breakfast while our hostess Skyped her mother in England. ‘Who’s that talking in the background?’ her mother asked. After Mattress Lady explained who we were and what I was doing, her mother got anxious. ‘You shouldn’t have strangers in your house,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum, they’re lovely. So lovely, in fact, I think I might keep them. I might just kidnap them. Ha.

  Hahahaha. Hahahaha.’

  Pip, Michiel and I looked at each other with genuine concern on our faces. Our hostess had told us her husband was away for the weekend, but there was no sign of a man’s things anywhere in the house, and no pictures either. Things were starting to feel weird so it was time for us to move on.

  Speaking of weird, I got a call from Dan as we were getting ready to go. Our friend who reads Tarot cards had told Dan that there was something strange in the cards for me. She thought I was going to find the body of that boy from Huntly. ‘But don’t tell Jimi or it will freak him out,’ she said. So the first thing Dan did was get on the phone and tell me! I didn’t freak out, but I wondered why Caroline had said I’d find a body and two others had said I’d find the boy from Huntly.

  It took me all morning to get to Huntly. I popped another Lilo so I lost time waiting for the guys to turn up with a spare. I had told Pip and Michiel th
at they could have the day off to do something fun, so they’d decided to go to Waingaro Hot Springs.

  I had taken $20 with me in the change pocket of my wetsuit—I was grateful for New Zealand’s waterproof money. If I had been looking forward to one thing, it was KFC in Huntly. Yahoo! I love KFC and I had been eating such a good diet leading up to the trip that I was looking forward to the chance to break my diet.

  I got out of the river and walked across the highway. I was soaking wet. I left my Lilo at the front door of KFC and went inside. People looked at me strangely. Fair enough. But, to their credit, as I dripped river water onto their floor, I was served politely and sent on my way. I walked back to the river and sat at the only picnic table in the park. I was still soaking wet, with my Lilo by my side and the midday sun beating down on me. I savoured every mouthful of the KFC.

  I heard a bumping sound and looked around. An old, beaten-up, faded dark-blue BMW jumped the kerb and started driving towards me at a fair speed. Shit. It was going far too fast to be driving on a football field and it was coming straight at me. As it got closer I could see the driver—a man, aged about 40, covered in gang-type tattoos and wearing a black singlet. I was scared. Did he want my KFC? Did he want my Lilo? I only had small change on me. He could have my money!

  He leaned out the window and said, ‘I saw you at KFC.

  You’re the guy doing the Lilo thing, aye?’

  ‘Umm, yip.’ I wondered where this was heading.

  ‘Well, I’d just like to say that I, and the community, appreciate what you’re doing for depression and Waikato. It’s bloody good. Thank you.’ And with that, he drove off. A wave of relief rolled over me. That experience reiterated the lesson I’d learnt at the pub the night before.

  JIMI’S LESSON #14: Don’t judge a book by its cover.

  Back in the river, I popped my Lilo. Because I’d given Pip and Michiel the day off I had tucked a spare Lilo into my backpack, but somewhere, somehow, it had fallen out. Reluctantly, I called Pip and Michiel, but they were ages away.

  Hats off to Huntly! Over the course of an hour I had about a dozen locals stop and talk. Special thanks go to Brad and Claire, who not only stopped, they also shopped for me. They had both suffered from mental illness at one time and had been following the whole adventure. They had come to tell me how much they appreciated what I was doing and said they were here to help.

  Off they went to get a Lilo. A bit later they were back. That Monday there were no Lilos available in Huntly, but they brought duct tape and glue. In the end, I decided it was best to wait for my support team, who showed up not long after.

  While I waited, Colin, a typical farmer, also stopped to talk to me. Well, he looked and spoke like a typical farmer, but he had a slightly different point of view. Farmers don’t like talking about being depressed—they probably like it even less than other New Zealand males do. Colin wanted to tell me how bad it was—farming was hard, prices fluctuated, there was isolation and in a lot of cases that led to depression. He said I was doing a great job raising awareness in the Waikato about this issue and he thought that many would seek help because of it. Awesome.

  Michiel had arrived and pumped up a new Lilo. As I was getting ready to go again we were interrupted by someone yelling, ‘I’ve found him!’ I ran down to the river with the Lilo, jumped in and paddled as fast as I could about 400 metres downstream to a small sand bar on the side of the river where a man was covering up a body with a blue tarpaulin. I knew instantly the situation I had paddled into.

  I made my way slowly over to the man, not knowing what to say. I asked if there was anything I could do for him. We started talking. He told me he was the boy’s uncle. He said it had been an exhausting and harrowing four days and he was relieved that the family had their boy back to put him to rest. We just talked quietly and I realised I was meant to be there in that place at that time.

  I told him about the three people who’d predicted I would be there and said it felt strange that it was actually happening as they had said it would. He didn’t think it was strange at all. He explained that he’d had similar guidance from two spiritual Maori women who had told him the boy was ready to surface now and where he should go and look for him. He had simply followed their instructions, come down, found the body floating in the river and pulled his nephew to shore.

  It’s hard to explain the feeling I had. I had no affiliation to the boy, his family or his community, but I felt overwhelming sadness at their loss. I felt like I had lost a part of me as well. My stomach was churning with emotion.

  The uncle’s feeling of relief was palpable and I thought the whole family would be feeling the same way. We stood there talking quietly, my hand on his shoulder, for what seemed like forever. The covered body lay at our feet. The three of us together, on the banks of the river, waiting.

  Soon the police turned up. We were about 200 metres from the end of the road where a cordon had been set up. People, including family and friends, were gathered there looking towards the river. It felt eerie being there.

  The boy had died doing something he loved. He was having fun. There wasn’t much the police could do. Here was the body, it needed to be taken away so the family could bury their son. The police told us we could go, the uncle and I, and we turned to each other and said goodbye. He thanked me and walked off towards his waiting family.

  Just like that, I was on my own again. I had to be at Rangiriri later that day and I still had a long way to paddle. So, once again, I picked up my Lilo, turned towards the river and slowly eased myself in. I started paddling, a slow steady rhythm, but my mind was racing. Around the corner and out of sight of the sand bank the enormity of what had just happened hit me. I burst into tears. I was crying uncontrollably.

  I couldn’t keep going. I paddled over to the right side of the river and got out. Over the bank I came to an abandoned shed. I don’t know how, but I set off an alarm. The sound was piercing. My head was clogged with snot and tears and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I walked back down to the river’s edge, got out my phone and called Pip. ‘I can’t paddle anymore, please come and get me.’

  It took Pip and Michiel a while to figure out where I was, but when I heard the alarm go off again I figured they’d found me. Pip came and sat with me. She put her arm around me and comforted me. Lilo was already a very emotional experience for me and I was distraught about what had happened earlier.

  I needed to talk to someone to process what I had just seen. I had never seen a dead body before. That was an overwhelming experience, but I think it was a combination of many things—everything just poured out. I had no control over it anymore. I didn’t want to go any further that day. I wanted to go to bed.

  Pip was fine with that. She knew I needed to talk to my friends. I needed to talk to my supporters, too, so I updated the Lilo The Waikato Facebook page. Here’s the post:

  This trip is a frivolous extravagance. About an hour ago it was all put into perspective when I was the second person to come upon the body of the young man who died jumping off a bridge in Huntly. His uncle found him just offshore, I stayed and talked with him until the police arrived. My sincerest condolences go out to his family and the community. Life is precious, enjoy it, live it and remember to tell the ones around you how much you love them.

  The post got shared 25 times, it had 269 people ‘like’ it and it had 63 comments. It was the comments that I needed most. People told me it wasn’t frivolous, which I kind of knew but it seemed inconsequential at the time. People told me that I was meant to be there, that I was there to comfort the uncle. People were genuinely nice. But it was one comment in particular, from my friend Scott, that got me motivated to get back in the water:

  . . . finish your journey buddy . . . for all of us and that young chap!

  He was right. I had to keep going, and not tomorrow, now. I had to get back into the water. In the end it was easy to get going because I could talk to people as I was paddling along at a fair old
speed. I’d turned my phone, tucked up in its waterproof bag, to speaker and put it on the pillow of the Lilo. Who said men can’t multi-task?

  My mum saw my Facebook status and called me. I got a call from my PR ladies, for no other reason than to see if I was okay. Media had been following me on Facebook and I started getting calls from radio stations around the country.

  I only gave a couple of interviews but they left me feeling bad. I felt fraudulent. This whole tragic event had nothing to do with me. I just happened to be there for the uncle. I stopped answering calls from media—they needed to talk to the family, not me.

  Paddling was slow going. My mind kept wandering back to the boy, the uncle and the rest of that family. My phone rang again. It was my mate Lachy to the rescue again! What I didn’t tell you about Lachy before was why he lived in Whakatane—he had given up a successful career in the UK to come home and look after his terminally ill mother. Lachy’s mum had just passed away earlier that day.

  I would do anything for Lachs. If he had needed me to, I would have got out of the river and hitchhiked to Whakatane to be with him, just as he had travelled to Auckland for me when I had needed someone. We had both faced tragedy that day, so we just chatted on the phone while the late-summer sun shone down on one of the saddest days for both of us.

  After talking to Lachy I felt really alone again. I was on a goddamn river. When you are depressed you feel as if you are completely alone. You think that your friends don’t like you anymore and that no one cares. But it’s not true. They care.

  When I was depressed, every little effort felt like the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. I never specifically asked for help but I would expect people to read my mind and understand that I was reaching out without making any effort. That is clearly illogical and unrealistic, but it’s the way I used to think and feel. The truth is that your friends are all living their own lives and you, surprisingly, are not the centre of it. They love you, but it’s not their job to take care of you 24/7 and it’s not their job to make sure you’re at every party. That part is up to you.