Extreme Frontiers: Racing Across Canada from Newfoundland to the Rockies by Charley Boorman Page A
Authors: Charley Boorman
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Confederacy. Contrary to popular belief, they rather than
the Mohicans were the ones with the ‘Mohawk’ hairstyle.
Leaving the dock behind, we hugged the coastline until we were over the first dive site, where Mike began his safety briefing.
All he kept talking about was the cold.
‘I want to make sure you guys are adding air to your vests while you’re going down,’ he stated. ‘Try not to do it while you’re
breathing in, because I want to avoid a reg freeze-up at the bottom. As I said, this is extreme cold diving.’
You see? All I’d done was Indonesia and the Caribbean, where I barely needed a wetsuit – now it was
extreme
cold diving.
Russ was listening carefully. ‘What’s a reg freeze-up?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ Mike said, ‘in cold water if there’s too much air going through the first stage of the regulator it can freeze up,
which means you’ll be getting air all the time. That means your tank isn’t going to last very long, and we want to avoid that
so you can have as long as possible under water.’
We got the rest of the gear on – rubber helmets, tanks and fins – and were ready to make the descent. On the steps at the dive
platform I covered my mask and dropped in. Bloodyhell, that’s cold, I thought. Holy shite, that isn’t cold – it’s
freezing
.
Forty-two degrees Fahrenheit, which in our language is about eight degrees. The breath seemed to stop in my throat. It was
really unnerving, and this was only on the surface. God knows what it was going to be like when we went below. I could not
shut up. I kept on and on about how cold it was, while on deck Mungo and Nat were killing themselves laughing. ‘Funniest diving
I’ve ever seen! That’s backstroke, Charley,’ Mungo called. ‘Don’t be such a wuss, mate. Get below!’
The trouble was, I didn’t feel comfortable. I couldn’t get my breath, my chest was so tight I thought I was having a panic
attack and I found myself clinging on to the rope attached to the buoy that marked the position of the wreck. Mike was giving
me a pep talk while I tried to calm down and do something about my breathing.
‘Are you all right?’ he called to Russ, who was behind me and actually hanging on to the buoy itself now.
‘No,’ Russ admitted. ‘I can’t seem to get a breath.’
We had to get it together: this was extreme frontiers and we couldn’t just quit. Eventually we managed to go under, and submerged
at last we made our way down the rope, hand over hand, from the buoy to the shipwreck a few fathoms below. I’ve never had
a panic attack in my life, but the feeling was still close, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that I kept having to clear the
skin-chapping water from my mask.
At last though, we were on the wreck. I stood on deck, where a Canadian flag fluttered languidly, listening to the sound of
my own breathing. Moments later I was diving through the engine room deep into the bowels of the ship before ascending the
height of the smokestack. Russ was ahead of me, and there wassomething eerie about being in that tunnel of darkness watching his fins fan the water into the light above. We passed through
open doorways, peered through gaping portholes; I found an old enamel mug and pretended to drink from it. We dived inside
the wheelhouse, into the living quarters still with their tables and bunks. It was amazing to realise that once upon a time
people had been living and working here. Despite the fact that I knew this vessel had been sunk deliberately, I couldn’t help
but think of the
Titanic
and all those headstones I’d seen in Halifax. I tried to imagine night-time on the lake, with the weather storming; I thought
of being on a sinking ship with no one to call for help and feeling the first freezing bite as you leapt overboard with no
hope of making it to safety.
I don’t know why, but on the way up I started to feel panicky all over again. I’d been all right on the
the Mohicans were the ones with the ‘Mohawk’ hairstyle.
Leaving the dock behind, we hugged the coastline until we were over the first dive site, where Mike began his safety briefing.
All he kept talking about was the cold.
‘I want to make sure you guys are adding air to your vests while you’re going down,’ he stated. ‘Try not to do it while you’re
breathing in, because I want to avoid a reg freeze-up at the bottom. As I said, this is extreme cold diving.’
You see? All I’d done was Indonesia and the Caribbean, where I barely needed a wetsuit – now it was
extreme
cold diving.
Russ was listening carefully. ‘What’s a reg freeze-up?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ Mike said, ‘in cold water if there’s too much air going through the first stage of the regulator it can freeze up,
which means you’ll be getting air all the time. That means your tank isn’t going to last very long, and we want to avoid that
so you can have as long as possible under water.’
We got the rest of the gear on – rubber helmets, tanks and fins – and were ready to make the descent. On the steps at the dive
platform I covered my mask and dropped in. Bloodyhell, that’s cold, I thought. Holy shite, that isn’t cold – it’s
freezing
.
Forty-two degrees Fahrenheit, which in our language is about eight degrees. The breath seemed to stop in my throat. It was
really unnerving, and this was only on the surface. God knows what it was going to be like when we went below. I could not
shut up. I kept on and on about how cold it was, while on deck Mungo and Nat were killing themselves laughing. ‘Funniest diving
I’ve ever seen! That’s backstroke, Charley,’ Mungo called. ‘Don’t be such a wuss, mate. Get below!’
The trouble was, I didn’t feel comfortable. I couldn’t get my breath, my chest was so tight I thought I was having a panic
attack and I found myself clinging on to the rope attached to the buoy that marked the position of the wreck. Mike was giving
me a pep talk while I tried to calm down and do something about my breathing.
‘Are you all right?’ he called to Russ, who was behind me and actually hanging on to the buoy itself now.
‘No,’ Russ admitted. ‘I can’t seem to get a breath.’
We had to get it together: this was extreme frontiers and we couldn’t just quit. Eventually we managed to go under, and submerged
at last we made our way down the rope, hand over hand, from the buoy to the shipwreck a few fathoms below. I’ve never had
a panic attack in my life, but the feeling was still close, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that I kept having to clear the
skin-chapping water from my mask.
At last though, we were on the wreck. I stood on deck, where a Canadian flag fluttered languidly, listening to the sound of
my own breathing. Moments later I was diving through the engine room deep into the bowels of the ship before ascending the
height of the smokestack. Russ was ahead of me, and there wassomething eerie about being in that tunnel of darkness watching his fins fan the water into the light above. We passed through
open doorways, peered through gaping portholes; I found an old enamel mug and pretended to drink from it. We dived inside
the wheelhouse, into the living quarters still with their tables and bunks. It was amazing to realise that once upon a time
people had been living and working here. Despite the fact that I knew this vessel had been sunk deliberately, I couldn’t help
but think of the
Titanic
and all those headstones I’d seen in Halifax. I tried to imagine night-time on the lake, with the weather storming; I thought
of being on a sinking ship with no one to call for help and feeling the first freezing bite as you leapt overboard with no
hope of making it to safety.
I don’t know why, but on the way up I started to feel panicky all over again. I’d been all right on the
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