A Bit Mental

by Jimi Hunt

  On the river not far from Huntly I knew, as I know now, to ask for help. I needed to talk to someone about the boy and his uncle and my part in their story. I did something that I wouldn’t have done before and asked for help. I made the first move. I called people who I thought could help me and talk me through it. I knew that I had taken a massive step forward that day. I knew I had improved. I knew I had started walking the talk!

  I had talked to people and I felt a little better, but I was still drained. I felt physically and emotionally exhausted from the events of the day. Unfortunately, I still had a long way to paddle and my arms were like jelly. I knew that each stroke was about one-third as powerful as it should be. There wasn’t anything I could do about it. I had to keep going.

  It was dark, pitch black. I had never paddled this late before. It’s not that I was scared of paddling the river at night, but I was ready to get out. I could tell from my GPS that I wasn’t too far away and I talked to Michiel—they’d been waiting in Rangiriri for hours. As I approached the bridge I could see the lights of the bus shining onto the river. I’d made it at last. The problem was, I had no accommodation organised.

  The Rangiriri Tavern, a historic building on the banks of the Waikato, is a pub that also has accommodation. The kitchen was closing about now, so Michiel had ordered some food. I got changed out of my smelly wetsuit without showering and went into the pub where my food was waiting.

  Three old men, farmers from down south, stopped me as I entered. They had been following my progress on the news and had some questions.

  ‘How long is the Waikato River?’ the first one asked.

  ‘It’s 425 kilometres,’ I replied.

  ‘No it’s not,’ came his curt reply.

  I laughed. ‘You’re right. It’s not. It’s 331 kilometres.’

  I’d just realised this a few days previously, when I was way ahead of schedule despite paddling only as far as I’d calculated I would need to each day. This is what happens when you don’t prepare properly—you get things wrong.

  One of the first questions I was asked when I posted my plan on Facebook was how long the Waikato River was. I had googled the answer and I’d wrongly assumed that the Waikato River starts at the exit point from Lake Taupo. The truth is, the Waikato technically starts a bit up the Tongariro River, north of Mount Ruapehu. The 425 kilometres includes that bit of river and the entire length of Lake Taupo. For nine months I’d been telling the media and anyone else who would listen incorrect information. The distance I was paddling was 90 kilometres shorter than I had said. No wonder I was three days ahead of myself! The funniest thing to me was that no one had picked up on it until now. I had a good laugh with the farmers then went inside.

  Pip reminded me that I still had to ask the proprietors if I could stay. I didn’t want to. I told Pip that I wasn’t going to ask them. The pub was almost empty, and a man and a woman were hurriedly running around cleaning up and getting things sorted for closing. The man looked angry. I certainly wasn’t going to ask him. I couldn’t take the rejection I assumed was coming. I told Pip again, ‘I’m not going to ask him. I’ll pay for us all on my credit card. I don’t care how much it costs.’

  ‘What’s the motto of this trip?’ Pip asked.

  ‘Ask for help,’ I replied.

  ‘Exactly. You have had a horrible day, you need to ask for help.’ She made perfect sense but I was past caring. I knew she was right. I knew the principle was right. I just didn’t want to do it. Like I hadn’t wanted to ask for help when I was depressed.

  I knew I had to ask for help. Otherwise, what was the point of all I’d just been through? I waited for the man to disappear out the back so I could ask the woman.

  ‘Hi, my name is Jimi. I’m Lilo-ing the Waikato to raise awareness for depression. My friends and I really need a place to stay tonight. Do you think you could put us up?’ It was horrible. It was the first time I felt as if I was trying to bludge something for free. I cringed.

  ‘You’ll have to ask my husband,’ she said. ‘He’s in charge.’

  That was not the answer I wanted to hear. She hadn’t heard of what I was doing—it wasn’t looking good. We waited for her husband to come back and I asked him the same question. He looked like he wanted to say no. I felt like my heart was in my mouth as I anticipated his response. Then he spoke.

  ‘This isn’t my hotel. I just run it. A woman from Auckland owns it and I couldn’t let anyone stay for free without her say-so.’

  I admired him for that. It was 10 pm. What was he going to do? He said he’d ring her. To my surprise, she answered, and to my further surprise she knew what I was doing because she had read a New Zealand Herald article about me. To my even bigger surprise, she was happy to let all three of us stay for free. A wave of relief washed over my body and all I wanted to do was go to sleep.

  DAY TEN: RANGIRIRI TO TUAKAU

  The Waikato River was perfectly set up for my adventure. All the towns happen to be about 30 kilometres apart, the perfect daily distance for travel by Lilo. However, Day Ten was different. I was going to have to paddle 44 kilometres—further than a marathon. That morning I would have much preferred to get up and run the distance. Since Huntly, the river had pretty much stopped flowing. It was wide and, more annoyingly, it was shallow. It was so shallow in most places that I was scraping my hands on the bottom.

  I got up early from my deep and rejuvenating sleep at the hotel. I ate some breakfast and drank some water. I got in the cool, early-morning river and started paddling.

  Rangiriri to Tuakau is not one of the most beautiful stretches of the Waikato River. It is slow, muddy and surrounded by farmland. There is nothing worth looking at. I hadn’t cared about this before, but now it was starting to get me down. The principle was simple. I needed to paddle until I got to Tuakau. I had no motivation except the idea of getting there. I had managed to become pretty good at paddling straight, even with my eyes closed, so I developed a system that went like this:

  200 strokes followed by a 20-second rest.

  After 2000 strokes—a two-minute rest.

  After 10,000 strokes—a five-minute rest, that might include some orange or protein bar and checking Facebook.

  Rinse and repeat all the way to Tuakau.

  It sounds boring because it is. The key to alleviating the boredom is the counting part. Counting each stroke means there isn’t much time to think of anything else.

  By about 1 pm I had made it to Mercer for lunch with Pip and Michiel. We went to McDonald’s. Even though I was hungry it didn’t taste very nice. My body felt almost broken again. I could barely get my wetsuit off in order to go and get some food so lunch took about two hours. Afterwards I didn’t want to get back on the river. My right shoulder was very sore and I had chafing under both arms. Both these things had happened before on the trip, but this was the worst they had been and I was over it.

  Sitting in the car park waiting for our lunch I opened an email from a stranger:

  Jimi,

  Just watched you on Close Up with my partner who has been struggling with depression for two years now. Life for me has been pretty hard as I feel like I have lost the man I loved. Watching you talk about losing your marriage because of depression was so heartfelt by us both and you have now given us hope that we will get through this. Thanks for being so honest. I am sorry things didn’t work out for you with your wife, I wish you all the happiness in the future.

  For the first time in ages I got a hug and a kiss.

  You will I am sure touch many people’s lives. Thanks for being brave enough to make depression not such a taboo thing. Good luck with your mission.

  I got her heartfelt message and it was obvious I had to get back in the river. And start counting: one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .

  I kept in touch with Michiel during the afternoon, but I was behind schedule the entire time. By the end, I was paddling in the dark, by the light of an almost-full moon. I was following a ribbon of water s
urrounded by farmland. I saw a bridge up ahead and felt relieved, but as I got closer I couldn’t see anything so I knew it wasn’t where I was supposed to be. Finally, I saw another bridge ahead and the familiar glow of headlights on the water. I pulled up to the boat ramp.

  Pip, Michiel and my friend Sam were waiting for me. Apparently, there had been a few people waiting for me in Tuakau, but I was so late that they had all drifted off. When I tried to put my feet down to stand up my legs couldn’t hold me and I sank into the water. My right arm wasn’t working and I needed help to take off my backpack. I couldn’t take off my wetsuit by myself. They all helped to peel it off to reveal raw skin everywhere. Unfortunately, everywhere means just that, including around my groin. Once I’d stopped and stripped off I began to feel pain. Not just pain, I was on fire. Wearing only shorts, I went back down to the water and immersed my entire body in the exquisitely cool water. I felt slightly better, but I couldn’t sleep here. It was late—about 10 pm—and I had been paddling since about 8 am. I needed to go to bed.

  Ali, who lived in Tuakau, had been following me on Facebook and had offered me a place to stay. I couldn’t get there quick enough! Sorry, Ali, that I was too tired to make the most of your generous hospitality, but I was almost dead. I needed to go to sleep. It was the sweetest relief to sink into that large and comfortable bed. I fell instantly asleep and slept soundly despite my painful broken skin and aching body.

  DAY ELEVEN: TUAKAU TO THE SEA

  I woke up to the smell of bacon and eggs. Ali was cooking up a storm for me. As soon as I walked into the kitchen I was handed a full plate of protein. I was ravenous so I made short work of it. We chatted with Ali for a bit and then left reasonably early because it was going to be another long day to Port Waikato and the sea at the end of my journey.

  Before I left, Pip had a word with me. ‘I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Did you know that Ali slept on the floor in the living room last night?’

  ‘No, I had no idea.’

  ‘The bed you were sleeping in was his.’

  I couldn’t believe it. Someone I’d never met before had given up his bed and slept on the floor for me—so that I could get a good night’s sleep. And he hadn’t wanted me to know. Here is the significance of that for me: if I’d had to sleep on the floor I wouldn’t have complained, but I’d probably have had a terrible sleep. I reckon I would have woken still tired and feeling cranky and I may not have had the energy to make it to the coast under my own steam. Thank you, Ali.

  JIMI’S LESSON #15: People are inherently good.

  This was something that I had learnt on this trip. People had been willing to help out and take in a stranger all along the way. They were willing to donate money to a good cause. They were willing to give up their time to help out in any way they could. People were awesome. I hadn’t given people the benefit of the doubt enough in the past. Now, I would. The first step was to ask for help!

  As I took off on the last day of my journey there was a thunderstorm and it was raining heavily, but nothing was going to faze me that day. The chafing was so bad I couldn’t put my wetsuit on. All I could manage was a rash vest and my boardies, and that was it. It was cold and I knew it was going to be challenging.

  I paddled. I paddled really, really hard but my right arm wasn’t working. To compensate for that I leaned my entire body off the right-hand side of the Lilo and paddled with my left hand. Somehow, that made me go straight. After about an hour of one-handed paddling madness my right shoulder started to loosen up so I was paddling two left-handed strokes to each right-handed one and my body wasn’t leaning off the side as much as before. Another hour into it and my shoulder had loosened up so that I could paddle alternate strokes.

  I had to reach Port Waikato by 6.45 pm. I really hoped there’d be someone to greet me. I hoped that some of my friends would come down from Auckland, but it was a Wednesday and Port Waikato is an hour’s drive from the CBD so I didn’t expect to see any of them. But I hoped to.

  I paddled harder. As hard as I had ever paddled. The thunder and rain eased and settled to a light drizzle. I was still freezing cold but as the sun started to come out my spirits lifted. For the first time in ages, I was actually running ahead of time. I’d had a feeling that this was going to be a good day. And so it was!

  I was met by a small boat about three kilometres short of my final destination. Luke and Bertrand thought the river mouth would be a good place for the final interview for our documentary. They’d brought along a reporter from the local paper. Hanging on to the boat as the interview progressed, I was acutely aware that the tide was coming in. Paddling the last section wasn’t going to be easy. I had to get going—I was anxious to meet my deadline. Then Luke announced they would tow me the rest of the way.

  ‘Just as well,’ I said. ‘I’m never going to get there on time now you’ve just insisted on interviewing me for an hour!’

  The end was in sight. I could see a crowd lining the shore, but I couldn’t make out who was there. I knew my mum would be there with my dog. Dad wouldn’t be there—he was on a business trip to India . . . I’m almost there . . . I want to get off the Lilo . . .

  The sky had cleared. It was brilliant blue and the sun was beating down as I was towed slowly to the end of my journey. As we passed a headland my heart suddenly swelled and tears started to fall: there were people in kayaks, surf boats, tinnies, whatever—about 30 craft in all—a welcoming flotilla coming out to greet me and guide me home.

  A surf boat pulled up and dropped me a tow line. I grabbed it. Then the Port Waikato Surf Club rowed me a bit further. An inflatable rescue boat pulled up and I grabbed its tow line to travel, full speed, up and onto the beach.

  I looked up and saw Mum and my dog. The crowd of about 50 people were all cheering.

  People were spoken to, people were thanked and interviews were done. The family, friends and supporters who were there overwhelmed me. Along the way, the kindness of strangers who had become friends and supporters, learning to ask for help, and encouraging others to ask for help had given me a belief that I had actually done something good. I was bursting with emotion. I wished all the people who had played an integral part in the adventure had been able to be with me to share the moment—the joy, elation and relief!

  Then it was over. Pip, Michiel and I climbed into the bus and drove home.

  DEBRIEF

  Lilo The Waikato was actually quite successful.

  The adventure amassed 21,000 likes from followers on Facebook. To put that in perspective, the Mental Health Foundation, tasked with tackling depression and all other mental illnesses in New Zealand, has 2200 likes and Lifeline, which plays an integral part in suicide prevention, has 121.

  At the completion of the adventure an independent PR professional calculated that we received approximately $1.1 million worth of PR value for depression in New Zealand—PR value roughly equates to how much it would cost in real dollars to buy that amount of media coverage.

  The documentary was screened on TV3 late in 2012 and provided even more awareness and help for people with depression.

  And, most importantly, I have received hundreds of emails from people who wanted to personally thank me for helping them understand what they were living with and giving them the confidence to reach out and ask for help. My story had helped them realise they could do something to make themselves better. Receiving those messages gave me the most incredible positive feelings I’d ever had.

  I think the reason that I was so successful in raising awareness for depression is simple. I think that I was the first person to raise awareness for depression by doing something that was a bit mental and wasn’t depressing! People had taken an interest, people had become excited and people had become involved. That made me really happy. Yahoo!

  I am proud of the result. After all, it started as a mad endeavour that I would do with Jo to get me out of my own depression. Also, I’m not a super athlete, I’m just a normal guy wh
o decided to put his mind to something and go and do it. You can, too. Whatever it is. If you make up your mind to do something, you can do it. You can make yourself better.

  When I think I have nothing to do I am reminded of my favourite saying.

  JIMI’S LESSON #16: DO EPIC SHIT!

  The definition of epic is different for everyone. To me, it might be Lilo-ing the Waikato or doing something massively crazy. To you, epic may mean a bungy jump because you are afraid of heights, or it might mean making a speech at Toastmasters because you are scared to death of public speaking. It doesn’t matter what it is, just go and do it.

  It is July, it’s freezing, I’m in a terrible headspace and I’m about to hop into the Mission Bay fountain to make a promo video. Idiot.

  Photo: Joe McPhee

  I claimed I could paddle to Rangitoto Island in order to get on TV. Silly, silly move.

  Photo: Dave Walker

  The flood gates at Taupo, where an idea becomes a stark reality.

  Photo: Bertrand Remaut

  The start of the Grade 3 Full James Rapids. Maybe I should have done a little more research. Oh well...

  Photo: Bertrand Remaut

  The documentary crew along for the ride.

  Photo: Geraldine Clermont

  Matt Chisholm from Close Up presenting the second piece about my story, helping me get national exposure. Thanks, Matt.

  Photo: Philippa Hayes

  Huka Lodge. Yes, they actually put on a spread for me!

  Photo: Geraldine Clermont

  Karaoke at the pub in Ngaruawahia with the boys.

  Photo: Philippa Hayes