by Ed Stafford
‘Soul-searching over. Good night,’ I sighed and switched off the camera.
A week today I leave the island. Home . . .
My morning ramblings were rudely interrupted by the need to run. Diarrhoea was dribbling out as I ran to the beach and lost control. On all fours at the water’s edge a colonic wave of pain overcame me, followed by a breathtaking release. The unwelcome stomach cramps returned undiminished but my body stood firm, repelled the attack and expelled the interlopers once more. I gasped as if I’d been submerged under water for the entire time.
My faeces at the top of the beach were quite processed and brown. At the bottom of the beach they were just unprocessed coconut that had gone straight through me. I wondered if I should make a drama out of it, and then just accepted that I was losing nutrients once more. For some reason my food was travelling through me faster than tea through a strainer.
I built the rock wall at the entrance to the rock pool to make my corral. I also tried the palm fishing line on the rocks but the force of the shallow water just ripped the line to pieces. The surge of the water coming in washed the line into the rocks and then, when the water was dragged out, the line snapped like cotton thread. I rubbed my temples and put down the failure to yet another learning experience. I expelled the air from my lungs and allowed my shoulders to sag. Once I had repaired the line, I would just have to revert to my original plan of using it on the shallow beach.
Like a child at the end of double maths, my island lesson had been going on far too long and my ability to take in any more information was fast fading.
I baited the rock corral with chum (maggots and coconut in this case) at low tide and sat high up on the beach and watched the tide start to come in. I didn’t need to wait, of course − this sort of trap could be left to its own devices. I knew I wouldn’t in any way influence a fish into being trapped by sitting there. But as I gazed at the water flooding into the new pools, turning miniature mountains into an underwater world of shrunken canyons, I acknowledged a certain weariness.
I was comfortable now. I wasn’t worried about water, fire or shelter − I’d long ago mastered them all. And, although I was for ever seeking new and more abundant sources of food, I think I felt that I’d made it. There were six days left now and my motivation to run around and try new things was dwindling. I felt like an old man at the end of his life who can see only his own death. He no longer travels or seeks new experiences; he feels like he has experienced his life and is ready to be taken away. I was in my twilight years on the island now and I was aware of it.
‘Take me now!’ I said to myself mockingly and decided to go for a stroll. Not a hunting mission or a firewood collecting trip but a walk for the sake of the pleasure of walking. I moved slowly and peacefully, one soft footstep after another, and felt the sand between my toes and the sun’s warmth and wind’s cooling on my bare back. Without thinking about it, I did collect more than enough food for supper − mainly crabs, snails and mussels − but it didn’t make me speed up or stop enjoying the walk. I allowed myself to feel. I was tired and I was bored of being alone. I felt as if I’d put my body on the line. But these were superficial feelings − thoughts of the now less influential ngan duppurru mind. The walk allowed me to go to a level deeper where something more had been stirred. Dare I say it? In the calm I was also beginning to feel proud.
I returned to the corral once the tide had gone out but there were no fish in it.
I smiled. I really wasn’t bothered at all.
I baited the rock corral again, and this time, when I returned after the tide had dropped, I noticed the head of a larger fish poking out from behind a large flat rock. I jumped into the rock pool and moved the rock to see a ten-inch black fish dart up to the end of the pool. I had trapped a fish! I staggered back and forth attempting to corner the fish but it kept swimming back between my legs, making me feel clumsy and inept. Then I started simply to throw stones at the fish. I hurled large rocks hard at the water but that didn’t quite seem to work either. Eventually the fish almost grounded itself in panic and I grabbed the body firmly. I really had caught my first fish! I banged the head with a rock until it was dead and chucked the prize in my basket.
The method had worked. It meant a huge amount to me as it proved that I had devised a method of fishing without a hook, line or net that could trap bigger fish and concentrate them in a small enough space for me to kill them. Triumphantly I carried my catch back to camp.
I scaled and gutted the fish in the shallows with my knife. It brought back memories of the Amazon. Scaling and gutting dinner each day had been such a familiar task. But back then I’d had fishing hooks and a net − this was an especially proud moment as I’d caught this fish using my brains and my bare hands. I chopped it up and had an early lunch of fish broth.
The taste, too, took me right back to the Amazon again. The fish oils transformed the broth into a healthy cure for lethargy and I could feel brain cells being elbowed awake by their neighbours. I blinked as if resurfacing from a deep sleep. I felt very much alive.
As I’d spent time making the long palm-leaf ‘net’ I decided that I should have one last go at using it. I tied one end around a small rock at the end of my beach and, as I did so, I could see a school of small dark fish loitering in the shallows. I realised that if I played my cards right this might actually work.
I walked the free end of the line straight out into the sea, slowly and quietly, and then walked behind the place where I’d seen the fish and crept back to the shore, encircling the area. From the beach I could see that about twenty or so of the three-inch fish were within my enclosure. I drew in the line slowly so as to tighten the area and concentrate the fish. The idea was that the fish would be scared enough by the line to turn away from it and swim the other way. It wasn’t a net, of course − more like a herder − but the fish certainly saw it as a barrier. The noose grew tighter and tighter and I envisaged that they would eventually all beach themselves neatly in front of me. I would be able to just scoop them up and throw them further up the sand where they couldn’t escape. But at the last minute they simply swam through the line − that had, of course, always been penetrable − and calmly swam away from me.
Far from being discouraged, I found this to be a far more successful experience than I’d expected. The system did work; perhaps I just needed to be a touch slower at drawing the line in. Perhaps, if the fish hadn’t clocked on that they were in danger, they wouldn’t have felt the need to try and escape.
I copied my first attempt time and time again until I could feel the red heat in my shoulders under the direct glare of the sun. Try as I might I never entrapped a shoal of fish again.
I spent a couple of hours making a bed using beach hibiscus and some long poles. It looked good enough propped up vertically against a tree. Then, when I picked it up, the frame skewed and all the hibiscus just fell off it.
I managed nineteen chin-ups at the end of week eight. ‘Nineteen! YEESSS!!’ I roared as I dropped from the high branch. With three days to go I was physically stronger than I’d ever been on this island.
I made another bed (mark two) that this time was braced so that it couldn’t skew. The lashings that were to act as the canvas between the poles were also tied on much more strongly so I carried it to my shelter and put it in place. I used some rocks to rest the frame upon to ensure it was horizontal and laid the rawhide from the goat on top for added comfort. Gingerly I laid my tired body on the bed for the first time. I was off the floor! I was fully outstretched and supported and comfortable. The sensation was like being cradled and it felt magical, like a world I had known long ago where it was normal to be free from discomfort.
‘I’m going to sleep like a baby tonight.’
Then, as if Olorua was having the last laugh, I found a mango tree. The twist was that the mangos were not yet ripe. I didn’t care: I hauled down a small bunch of hard green
fruits and bit into them. They smelled like mangos but tasted like, and had the consistency of an unripe hard fruit. I knew that I could still enhance my diet by eating them and getting the vitamins they contained, so I chomped through about five in one sitting and promptly snapped my false tooth in two. I shook my head at the gap-toothed reflection in the camera screen. Who cared what I looked like by this stage? I didn’t need the denture and, frankly, who cared if I now had a lisp.
I was eating so well – taro leaf, two crabs, snails, mango. Life after the goat was still good. I was ticking along very nicely and if I were to stay longer many more fruits would surely come into season and I would be eating fruit and fish like a king.
I awoke from the deepest sleep in a state of near-bliss. The tonnage of my body sank deep into the folds of my bed as if I were a Goliath engulfed in Bavarian goose down. I wanted this warm, supported sensation to last for ever. A burst of caramelised coconut fuelled my first creaky movements of the day. I rolled my log-like legs off the bed to pendulum myself upright. Head in hands, I sat planted on the side of the bed as if the night’s recharge had doubled the force of gravity. My connection to the earth was palpable; I had roots that penetrated the ground and my bare feet allowed energy to flow upwards into my body and fill me with strength and life. This was no metaphor. This was real.
I chuckled like a drunken hobo at the absurdity of not having made myself a bed earlier. Who cared? I’d done it now and was reaping the revitalising rewards. I saw clearly the need to learn this lesson, to look after myself and provide myself with comfort and support in all walks of life. I made a pledge that when I got off the island I would slow down and take the time to care more for myself and for others.
I reflected on all the things I could have done to make my life more comfortable − such as not spending seven bloody days flogging myself on the goat trap in the rain. I had gently to chide myself at my mistakes so as to take in the lessons. When I had thrown myself into a busy self-absorbed world I had chosen to be on my own. I had been battling and I had struggled to stay calm. But when I elected to stop, lift my head, open my eyes and really connect to everything around me I had support, composure, joy even. In this latter state I had reconnected to a bigger force that would always support me, and I knew that now. It wasn’t even as if I’d opened up and allowed luck to strike. I no longer believed in luck – there was a clear purpose to this force.
As the penny dropped I couldn’t stop smiling. I was so elated that I radiated gratitude and happiness, the whites of my eyes shining like wet moons. I saw how I’d always been trying to get somewhere else, never satisfied with who I was or where I was. But the moment I stopped trying so hard I came to understand what I’d already got. On the island I had so much: reliable food, a rainwater collection tank, life-giving fire, a sturdy home, a magical garden and a gargantuan swimming pool. Off the island I had all these things and more. I had every opportunity in the world. I had my health; I had a fantastic career, and, most importantly, I had true love from Amanda and the children. All I had to do to be genuinely happy was to stop and appreciate the things I already had. The peace and clarity of the moment told me it was true.
With the morning sun cutting through the highest branches, life really was that simple.
The day’s events were bright and vivid. I collected the best bone-dry firewood I’d ever collected. I swam in the lagoon and let the water wash me clean of myself. I ate good food and I drank crystal-clear rainwater. I took my time over everything and found I had still more time to rest, to relax, to enjoy. The hurrying seemed done with. The eternal fog of unrest to get somewhere else had burned off. I had everything I needed.
When I returned to camp for my final night, after another peaceful day on the island, guilt, my old acquaintance, crept into my shelter, unbuckled his belt and pissed on my fire. ‘Shit!’ I sat up. ‘I need to get off this bed and do stuff!’ – the way I had always reacted to make this uncouth intruder leave.
Then I remembered what I’d learned, laughed, and guilt skulked off without even having to be asked. I lay back down on my luxurious bed and watched the treetops stir in the breeze. I’d worked hard. I’d put myself through one of the toughest experiences of my life and I wasn’t going to allow guilt to control my last days. The aim had been to make myself comfortable, to do more than just survive but to thrive. As I lay by the fire I realised that the very fact that I had the option to relax and do nothing meant that I’d achieved that. I’d put in the hours, days of toil, to reach a stage where I was comfortable and relaxed. I would let myself enjoy that very fact.
Having used the lagoon as a bidet for perhaps the last time, I looked out at the sea and acknowledged that I’m not really a survival expert. Sure, I could survive, I’d proved that, and I wasn’t blind to the fact that many people with fewer survival skills than me would continue to claim the title ‘expert’. But this acknowledgement wasn’t about them; they could say what they liked. I certainly didn’t feel like an expert. I’m not a bushman or a tribal member, I’m a pale-skinned westerner who can get by – that’s it. I reminded myself that I’d dreamed up the entire experience to test my own boundaries, put myself through challenges that I hadn’t got the answers to, and I certainly felt like I’d been pushed mentally and physically to my absolute limits.
I realised that just getting through my time on the island had, in fact, been a success. The experiment had been designed to show me − if I placed myself in an ultimate survival situation without anything or anybody to help – how I would cope. Despite flirting with desperation and near-madness on several occasions I had come out the other side. I had coped. But beyond that I had also grown up. I wasn’t the same person who had set foot on the island fifty-nine days ago. I had been ravaged by self-realisation and by a necessity to readdress the way I dealt with the world. It had been relentless and unforgiving and I had often resented the experience. But in the serenity of the aftermath − in the peace of the fruition − I knew it had been worth it. Beyond televisual success, beyond survival success, I had learned lessons in sixty days that 860 days in the Amazon had failed to teach me and it was that which was giving me a satisfied sense of growing confidence once more. The long-ago extinguished candle of self-worth had been unearthed, dusted off and lit once more. It felt good to be home again.
‘Morning! Day sixty – it’s day sixty! I’m going home.’ I didn’t have to pretend to be utterly elated at the prospect. There was a sense of relief that could have erupted into uncontrollable sobs if I’d let myself drop my guard now that I’d reached the end of the road. Was there any rush to get out of bed? No − none whatsoever. I shut my eyes and decided to have a final lie-in.
My experience had always had a soundtrack, and the last morning had a new song that I not played myself before. The melancholy tones of ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn’ vibrated through my heart and my eyes opened once more to a sense of sad admission to the thorn of the rose. It had been hard for me, of course, but now I sensed more than ever that it had been really hard for Amanda. I longed for her to be happy and well and yet I was apprehensive about speaking to her. Had the separation damaged our relationship? Were we going to be OK?
I was so excited about seeing Amanda again, sharing moments together, eating food together, laughing together. I hoped from the bottom of my heart that she was all right.
The warmth of the fire and the familiar sound of the birds brought me back to the present. It was over. I’d made it. I was about to go home.
My more banal brain grasped a simpler theme and my first verbalising to the camera was the bastardised lyrics to the English football anthem: ‘We’re going home, we’re going home, we’re going, Eddy’s going home.’ The words were an insult to how I really felt.
I creaked and pulled myself up off the bed that had provided such comfort in the past few nights. All I had to do was stumble on to the beach and be picked up.
Simple.
Was I happy it was over? Yes − no question. Was I proud of what I’d achieved? Yes − I thought so − but last night’s pride wasn’t high in my list of emotions now. Pride could wait.
The pick-up was scheduled for mid-morning. A production message in the dropbox had given me the heads-up about how I would be taken off Olorua but my heart had already left and I had a little time to do something that I had resisted the temptation to do for the last sixty days.
I had to call Amanda.
I took out the clunky Iridium satellite phone, still covered in sand from my conversation with Dr Sundeep in the rain, and brushed the keypad clean with my fingers. I held the alien machine in my hand and was terrified to open the door. Every bit of my journey suddenly felt so selfish and I felt unprepared to deal with life outside my world. I keyed in her number and, after a long pause, pressed the call button. The British dial tone twisted my stomach.
‘Hi, my love, it’s me.’ I ventured tentatively.
‘Oh, my God! Hi, babe! It’s so good to hear your voice.’ The soft, familiar tones immediately started to unravel me. An unstoppable wave of emotion cracked my defences and I broke down. I sobbed powerfully out of love, pain and the knowledge that Amanda was still there. We couldn’t begin to explain to each other what we’d both been through, but, for now, who cared? We would be together again soon and that was what mattered to me more than anything in the world. I had tried to hold on to an emotional connection to her for the entire time but neither of us was blind to the fact that I’d really left her to fend for herself.
