First Man In

by Ant Middleton

  LESSON 9

  HOW TO AVOID A MUTINY

  I was irritated. But slightly amused. Rob Coldstream, a powerful commissioning editor at Channel 4, had invited me into his office to talk about a major TV project.

  ‘It’s an idea that’s been bouncing around for a while, really, but we’ve just not found the right team to do it,’ he said. ‘It’s for a show based on the Mutiny on the Bounty. It’s tough. The idea is to recreate it. An epic sea voyage in a small sailing boat. Four thousand miles across the open Pacific, something like that, with someone taking the part of Captain Bligh and a bunch of lads along for the ride. After your success on SAS, we thought about you potentially taking the helm on it. Being Bligh.’

  He put his pen down and narrowed his eyes.

  ‘We’ve seen that you can talk the talk. Now let’s see if you can walk the walk.’

  I couldn’t believe what he’d just said. Was he questioning my ability? Did he think I was just some Mouth Almighty? He wanted me to walk the fucking walk, did he? Had I not proved myself already? In that moment, in that airless corporate box in Central London, with its posters of daytime celebrities and cabinets filled with plastic awards, I felt the hatred poor out of me.

  ‘Ha!’ I laughed coldly, looking straight back at him. ‘Ha! OK. I see what you’re saying.’

  ‘What do you think, then?’ he said. ‘Could you handle it?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll deliver on this, don’t you worry about that.’

  ‘I hope so.’ He studied my face doubtfully. ‘I will remember this conversation.’

  Before I’d even made it to the revolving doors of Channel 4’s headquarters, I’d flipped the bad feeling that had flooded me. That anger became fuel – the negative became positive; my enemy became my energy. ‘I’ll show him,’ I thought. ‘I’ll smash it. I’ve got to get this right.’ The only problem was, I didn’t exactly know what I’d promised to deliver on. The Mutiny on the Bounty? Wasn’t that some old-school Hollywood pirate movie? And who was Captain Bligh anyway?

  ‘He was the captain of a ship, same age as you. Kicked off his boat in 1789 in the South Pacific,’ explained David Dugan, the founder of Windfall Films, the company that had been tasked by Channel 4 to actually make the show. We’d met for lunch and he was filling in the gaps for me. ‘Bligh and his men were left for dead in a tiny rescue boat.’

  ‘Tiny?’ I asked.

  ‘Twenty-three foot,’ he said.

  ‘Tiny,’ I nodded.

  ‘You’ve had plenty of experience on the sea, is that right?’

  ‘I’ve always loved the ocean. It’s the challenge of it. The unknown and the danger.’

  ‘And in the military?’

  ‘I served on HMS Ocean before I was deployed to Afghanistan. I’m an able seaman.’

  ‘Well, that’s great. You’ll be leading a band of men, just like it was back in 1789. We want to keep it as authentic as possible.’

  As he said the word ‘authentic’ my ears pricked up.

  ‘We plan on building an exact replica of the boat. It’s all open, so you’ll be exposed to all the elements.’

  ‘That’s exactly how I’d want to do it too,’ I said. ‘What did they eat back then?’

  ‘They were on ship’s biscuits and salted pork. About 380 calories a day.’

  ‘We need to be on 380 calories a day then. How do you make ship’s biscuits?’

  ‘Flour, salt and a bit of water?’

  ‘Well, we’ll need to get those made up. What about the salted pork?’

  ‘That’s going to be harder to source.’

  ‘We could use biltong. It’s exactly the same. How much of it did they have?

  ‘Thirty-three grams a day.’

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll eat: 380 calories, ship’s biscuits, biltong.’

  A shadow of doubt flashed across David’s face. I carried on regardless.

  ‘What did they wear?’

  ‘Cotton, canvas and silk.’

  ‘Nothing can be waterproof. We need to feel the elements like they felt them.’

  ‘We’ll have to see. It might be a bit of a problem getting that past health and safety.’

  I sat back in my chair, resting my elbow on the clean white tablecloth.

  ‘David, if you’re going to have everything authentic all the way down, you can’t do the journey in fucking waterproof clothes. That defeats the object.’

  By now he was looking gravely concerned.

  ‘Well, we’ll have to look into it,’ he said. ‘Check the legality. You have to understand, though, you will need some modern accoutrements. Like GPS.’

  ‘We can’t have GPS on board!’ I cried. ‘We need to use a sextant and old paper charts, just like they did. There’s no point otherwise.’

  He clearly thought I was mad.

  Over the next few weeks, as more details about their plans emerged, I became increasingly excited. They wanted to mirror the people that were on the original boat as closely as possible. Bligh was a young military leader, I was a young military leader. He had sailing masters on board and we would too – Conrad, an old boy who’d sailed around the world; young Freddy, who’d sailed the Cape; and Chris, who’d sailed around the UK. Bligh had a medic on board and we’d have a junior GP called Luke. Bligh had a carpenter and we’d have handyman Ben. There was also a City boy called Rish on our crew, who made a living selling expensive whisky to high-end pubs and clubs. I’m not really sure why he was there and, by his own slightly baffled admission, neither was he. Anyway, he’d be our quartermaster, dishing out food and water.

  The combined forces of health and safety and insurance dictated that we’d only have half the number of men that Bligh had. It also meant that, despite my protestations, we’d have to keep a GPS on the boat, if only to be used in emergencies. But I fought back as much as I could, on every little detail. For me, if it wasn’t essentially true to Bligh’s actual experience, it wasn’t worth doing. I was determined that the crew and I had to exist within a bubble of authenticity, and that this bubble would not be broken. I understood that they wanted to track us in a safety boat, but I insisted that it had to stay over the horizon at all times, where we couldn’t see or hear it. We’d need to feel that we, as a team, had only one option: to get ourselves out of the shit. It’s impossible to get into that mindset if you can just glance over your shoulder and see the promise of warmth, safety and a supply of Rich Tea biscuits.

  The first time I met the men who I’d be captaining was for a group briefing and medical examinations at the Union Jack Club in Waterloo. This was yet more insurance and health and safety business, including a full health MOT, and blood tests for liver function, hepatitis B and C, and HIV. Then, more painful than a million blood tests, was a health and safety briefing that we had to attend to satisfy the insurance company. Sitting politely around a long table in a boardroom, somewhere deep in the military club, we learned that there were sharks in the ocean, that sharks can be naughty, that it was possible to drown in water and that, when moving around the wooden boat, we should be careful of splinters.

  I might have acted as if I was taking this entertainment show with heavy seriousness, but behind the scenes I’d spent the preceding weeks pushing for as little health and safety as possible. It was a whirlwind of argument, counter-argument and compromise. I eventually allowed life jackets, but they were only to be worn at my discretion. I also had to permit the use of clip-on harnesses for use in stormy seas. One big sticking point for me was the waterproofs. The production company were insistent, but I genuinely believed we didn’t need them. I wanted to prove that a good leader can take any body of men or women and mould them into people who can get the job done.

  But even more than that, I wanted to prove that modern-day man is every bit as tough as men used to be. There’s an old saying that ‘when ships were made of wood, men were made of steel.’ When it’s said today, what it’s really implying is that, in the modern age, ships are made of steel and men of
wood. I wanted to show the world that this isn’t true. I’d take an average City boy and mould him into something gritty and hard.

  I believe there’s still a primal caveman instinct in all of us – a core of masculinity. Most men today are wrapped in cotton wool. Nobody is held responsible for their actions. Men aren’t allowed to be men anymore. I wanted to take a bunch of lads and turn them into a formidable team. We were going to suffer together, have a fucking good time together and show the world that we were every bit as tough as those lads were in 1789. I was going to take this mission to the line and push it over.

  But when the others heard about my plans they fell silent. Having delivered my impassioned speech, following the health and safety man’s exit, I was met by awkward stares and shuffling. I excused myself to use the bathroom and, as soon as I was in the corridor, I heard the negativity start: ‘I don’t think he understands the open ocean’; ‘He’s being naïve’; ‘He’s being reckless’; ‘There’s doing it authentically and then there’s being stupid.’ When I returned I dug in, pressing the point even further.

  ‘Don’t get it into your heads that we’ll be doing this by the book,’ I said. ‘Once we’re on the sea, that book goes out of the window. We’ll need to break the rules to survive.’

  At this, Conrad piped up. He was the most experienced sailor in the room by far, but he’d done it all using ultra-modern equipment, with the capability to shelter below decks for a nice cup of tea when the weather turned.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, it just doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Listen, I respect what you’ve done,’ I replied. ‘You’ve sailed around the world and I tip my hat to you. But get all this health and safety shit out of your head. Forget the idea that this is a sailing trip. This is not a sailing trip. This is one of the hardest and biggest survival feats in the history of mankind. This is about staying alive. You – all of you – need to get yourselves into that mindset.’

  Conrad said nothing, but I could tell what he was thinking: that he was the experienced sailor, I was just some shouty guy from the telly who was only there to be a public figurehead. There was no way I was going to let him, or the group, define me like this. I decided that, for the time being, starting a head-to-head ruction with this guy would be the wrong strategy. Instead, I’d allow him to feel like the big man, while observing him, working out his strong points and weak spots. I’d quietly lead from behind. I’d sit back and let him stride about with his chin up. But when the time came, I’d earn his respect. The time would come when I’d show him exactly why I was captain, of that I had no doubt.

  The other crew member I was worried about that day was handyman Ben. He was overweight, gobby and kept trying to be funny, snapping, ‘Yes, Sergeant Major!’ at me. I let him have his little games, while thinking that if we were in the military, I’d have ripped his fucking head off. His sarcasm, I knew, was going to wear thin very quickly. It also didn’t speak well of his character. Here was a guy who wasn’t very proactive and hid behind his humour. That was all well and good when you were living a mediocre existence in suburban London, but what was he going to do when he was in a world of pain in the middle of the ocean? What would he have to offer then, apart from some dim joke?

  The others seemed fine. Rish the City boy was cheery and positive. Freddy was keen, had done his maritime qualifications, worked on cargo ships and super yachts, and even spent half his year living on his dad’s boat. He was a sailing geek who could tell you the star formations and which way up to hold a sextant. He’d be a good member of the team, although he seemed fragile. Chris, meanwhile, was a birdlike Scouser who’d sailed solo around the UK. He was respectful, self-taught and seemed to know his stuff, but there was a rebellious edge to him. I could see myself a little bit in him. Out of everyone, I thought he’d be the greatest asset to the team. Then there were Sam and Dan, the embedded cameramen, who both had experience in the survival world. I was glad to have them onside, as they understood where I was coming from and why I’d been tapped to lead this mission. This would be a survival situation. It would be serious. I’d need to play every individual in this raggedy crew to their strengths. I wouldn’t have time to develop weaknesses.

  After the health and safety meeting everyone agreed to head off for beers so they could all bond. But I didn’t want to hang around and mix with the crew. We weren’t going on a holiday together. I wanted to keep a separation between us. Leaders stand apart from crowds, and I didn’t want familiarity to get in the way of the respect I’d need to get the job done. I wasn’t there to be their pal, I was there to be their leader. If I was getting stuck into the beers and playing stupid games with them one day, then having to lay down the law the next, their immediate, instinctive response would be, ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ That attitude could lead to festering and toxicity among the men. It might ultimately be the thing that would sink us.

  Two weeks before they all arrived in Tonga, where we’d launch out into the mission, the production crew and I flew out to make final plans. The place was pure paradise – everything you’re imagining right now, as you read this, was there. We stayed in a nice hotel along the beach, away from where the others would be put up. After they landed I restricted my time with them to a pizza and a couple of beers, before going back to my hotel. They were noticeably cautious around me. The magnitude of the task was finally hitting them, and I’ve no doubt that the general feeling among them was, ‘Fucking hell, we have this guy off the telly who’s not even a sailor leading us. How the hell is this going to work?’

  Shortly before the morning of our departure I had another difficult exchange with Conrad. We were having dinner at the hotel, charting the route, when discussion fell to the crew’s sleep and work patterns. He wanted to do it in three shifts, so three men were up at a time while six men slept.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s not going to work. We need four on and four off and I, as captain, will sit back jump between shifts so I can have an overall view of things.’

  He pulled a face like he was passing something knotty.

  ‘This is not the kind of boat you’re used to, where everyone has their own bed,’ I said. ‘Because of the space, if we did 3–3–3, we’d have to hotbed around the boat.’

  ‘But what’s wrong with that?’ he said. ‘Explain.’

  ‘I’ll explain,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be sheer hell out there. And, with the greatest respect, Conrad, I’ve been to hell. I’ve survived hell. I know what hell is like. It’s critical for morale that the men are able to go back to what they think of as their own safe haven. I’m going to get people to pair up, so each pair has its regular spot. Then, when they change over, they return to their familiar bed space. I’ll sleep anywhere on the boat, I don’t mind. But I need those guys to know they have their cocoon to crawl back into. And I need them to slot into a routine. I want them sleeping where their stuff is, knowing where to find everything, so they can make every second count and get as much sleep as possible.’

  He still looked ill at ease. ‘Well, let’s go with your plan to begin with,’ he said. ‘See how it goes.’

  ‘We’re going to need to maintain tight discipline,’ I said. ‘Tie everything down, make sure everything is put away. When a man gets into his bed space, if his partner’s shit is everywhere, it’s going to annoy him and grind on him and he’s going to lose sleep because it will be ticking through his head. That mindset can eat away at you. We’re not out there for two weeks. It’s two months. We’ve got two sets of clothes each. Everyone has to make sure their dry set is packed away properly so it doesn’t get wet. If waves come over, if shit hits the fan, at least you know you’ve got a nice dry set of kit to climb into when it’s all over. The war out there, it won’t be with the ocean. The war we’ll be fighting will be in our own heads.’

  ‘They’re going to find all this a bit strict,’ he said. ‘It’s all very military. They won’t be used to it.’

  ‘Yeah, but
once people get into it they love that discipline. Trust me. They’ll be so glad to be getting back to their familiar cocoon, not having to sort their partner’s shit out, knowing exactly where their spoon and cup is. They’ll learn to value the discipline very quickly. And if they don’t, they won’t make it.’

  ‘OK,’ he said cautiously. ‘We can always juggle things about if your system doesn’t work out.’

  In between these planning meetings we were having regular capsize drills. I’d decided that we’d each have a number, and once we bobbed back to the surface we’d call our number out. That’s how we’d know everyone was present and correct. During one of the first drills we were bobbing away and listening for the numbers: ‘One!’ ‘Two!’ ‘Three!’ … No four. Who was number four? It was Dan the cameraman. All we could hear was the wind and the lapping of the sea knocking against the wood of the upturned hull.

  ‘Where’s Dan?’ someone said.

  ‘Ssssh!’ I hissed. ‘Shut up!’

  There was a faint knocking. I knew immediately what had happened. Dan was trapped under the boat. Without thinking, I kicked into work mode, dived under and dragged him out. It was a scary situation, but an important moment for the development of the team. It was the first time I was able to show the men why I’d been selected to lead this mission.

  Before we knew it, the day had arrived. We woke at 4 a.m. on the safety boat, which was dragging Bounty’s End – our home for the next two months – behind it. We showered, were thoroughly searched for contraband, our bags emptied and checked, then we were all quarantined together until we reached the location where, more than two centuries ago, the mutineer Fletcher Christian had committed his treacherous act.

  I looked out of the porthole at the weather. ‘Look at the swell out there,’ I said, to no one in particular. ‘It’s going to be rough.’

  And then we were called forwards. We clambered down a ladder into Bounty’s End and our white canvas duffel bags were literally thrown in after us. The mood on the boat was wild. Everyone was raring to go. It was great to see such energy, but I had to get their minds on the game.