Extreme Frontiers: Racing Across Canada from Newfoundland to the Rockies by Charley Boorman Page B
Authors: Charley Boorman
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bottom, but now I
couldn’t breathe properly. I don’t like the feeling of my face being enclosed, which is why I prefer to have an open-face
motorcycle helmet. There was something unbelievably claustrophobic suddenly about wearing a dive helmet. On the way back to
the boat I had to pull the rubber mask off so I could breathe. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it before. It felt
as if the life was being sucked out of my face.
Both Russ and I felt a real sense of accomplishment having dived in temperatures like that. It’s not for the faint-hearted
and at the beginning neither of us thought we were going to be able to make it. As Russ came on deck we shook hands. ‘I tell
you what,’ he said as he stripped off his tank. ‘I’ve been to some places in the world with you, Charley, but down there,
standing by the ship’s wheel, I thought, that’s as good a place to have been together as any I could think of.’
*
By the time we were out of our wetsuits and gliding over the top of the sunken
Sweepstakes
, I wasn’t in the mood for getting wet again. We could see all the wrecks from the boat, just below the surface in some places.
This really was wreck city; no wonder it was the scuba-diving capital of the country. Mike pointed out a wreck from the late
1800s – at one time you could dive inside it, make your way the length of the hull and come out at the other end. They’d stopped
that now, though, separating each section with cages because divers left a trail of air bubbles that became trapped in the
wreck and accelerated the rotting process. Russ commented that the wooden wrecks were in good condition and that had to have
something to do with the timber they used, because fresh water rots wood just as badly as salt water does.
I was back in my street clothes, but Russ was going in again. ‘Good luck, mate,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you back here in time for
the ice hockey.’
5
Messing About on the Ice
I ce hockey is Canada’s most popular spectator sport – although they just call it ‘hockey’ – and we were off to train with one
of its legends, Reggie Leach. Reggie is an indigenous, or First Nations, Canadian who had a long and distinguished career
in the National Hockey League (which also covers the USA) back in the 1970s, playing for various teams including the Boston
Bruins and the Philadelphia Flyers, with whom he won the prestigious Stanley Cup. Reggie was a serious player, the Wayne Rooney
of 1970s ice hockey; in one season he scored sixty-one goals, notching up nineteen in the play-offs alone. His record still
stands. I wondered if that made him a little nervous at the beginning of each season, but he pointed out that records are
meant to be broken and that sooner or later somebody was going to come along and do just that. I’d heard that kind of talk
before: John McGuinness with his TT records, Giacomo Agostini, the most successful motorcycle racer in history, with more
Grand Prix wins than anyone else, they all claim that records are there to be broken, but I bet there’s a bit of everygreat champion that really hopes theirs won’t be. After all, it’s that kind of winning mentality that made them a champion
in the first place.
Reggie now works with First Nations kids, teaching them how to play hockey. I met him at the T.M. Davies arena in a town called
Lively, and before I knew it he had me in the changing room getting kitted out. First I had to slide on a pair of Lycra pants
with a massive codpiece at the front. I felt like Blackadder, the way it was dangling, and I made a great show of prancing
around the changing room.
Once Reggie had helped me with the inner pants, I put on the rest of the kit. The body armour the players wear under their
shirts is lightweight and close-fitting; even a guy with my physique ends up looking like some sort of Roman gladiator. On
top went a baggy shirt, and the whole thing was finished off
couldn’t breathe properly. I don’t like the feeling of my face being enclosed, which is why I prefer to have an open-face
motorcycle helmet. There was something unbelievably claustrophobic suddenly about wearing a dive helmet. On the way back to
the boat I had to pull the rubber mask off so I could breathe. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it before. It felt
as if the life was being sucked out of my face.
Both Russ and I felt a real sense of accomplishment having dived in temperatures like that. It’s not for the faint-hearted
and at the beginning neither of us thought we were going to be able to make it. As Russ came on deck we shook hands. ‘I tell
you what,’ he said as he stripped off his tank. ‘I’ve been to some places in the world with you, Charley, but down there,
standing by the ship’s wheel, I thought, that’s as good a place to have been together as any I could think of.’
*
By the time we were out of our wetsuits and gliding over the top of the sunken
Sweepstakes
, I wasn’t in the mood for getting wet again. We could see all the wrecks from the boat, just below the surface in some places.
This really was wreck city; no wonder it was the scuba-diving capital of the country. Mike pointed out a wreck from the late
1800s – at one time you could dive inside it, make your way the length of the hull and come out at the other end. They’d stopped
that now, though, separating each section with cages because divers left a trail of air bubbles that became trapped in the
wreck and accelerated the rotting process. Russ commented that the wooden wrecks were in good condition and that had to have
something to do with the timber they used, because fresh water rots wood just as badly as salt water does.
I was back in my street clothes, but Russ was going in again. ‘Good luck, mate,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you back here in time for
the ice hockey.’
5
Messing About on the Ice
I ce hockey is Canada’s most popular spectator sport – although they just call it ‘hockey’ – and we were off to train with one
of its legends, Reggie Leach. Reggie is an indigenous, or First Nations, Canadian who had a long and distinguished career
in the National Hockey League (which also covers the USA) back in the 1970s, playing for various teams including the Boston
Bruins and the Philadelphia Flyers, with whom he won the prestigious Stanley Cup. Reggie was a serious player, the Wayne Rooney
of 1970s ice hockey; in one season he scored sixty-one goals, notching up nineteen in the play-offs alone. His record still
stands. I wondered if that made him a little nervous at the beginning of each season, but he pointed out that records are
meant to be broken and that sooner or later somebody was going to come along and do just that. I’d heard that kind of talk
before: John McGuinness with his TT records, Giacomo Agostini, the most successful motorcycle racer in history, with more
Grand Prix wins than anyone else, they all claim that records are there to be broken, but I bet there’s a bit of everygreat champion that really hopes theirs won’t be. After all, it’s that kind of winning mentality that made them a champion
in the first place.
Reggie now works with First Nations kids, teaching them how to play hockey. I met him at the T.M. Davies arena in a town called
Lively, and before I knew it he had me in the changing room getting kitted out. First I had to slide on a pair of Lycra pants
with a massive codpiece at the front. I felt like Blackadder, the way it was dangling, and I made a great show of prancing
around the changing room.
Once Reggie had helped me with the inner pants, I put on the rest of the kit. The body armour the players wear under their
shirts is lightweight and close-fitting; even a guy with my physique ends up looking like some sort of Roman gladiator. On
top went a baggy shirt, and the whole thing was finished off
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