IT WASN’T THE CLOSEST I’VE EVER BEEN TO DEATH. In the original itinerary of the Best Odyssey, I had never even planned on sailing to the Outer Hebrides in Scotland. In fact when I first started sketching our itinerary all those many moons ago I don’t think I knew the Outer Hebrides even existed. How we got there, however, after nearly five years of sailing around the world looking for places to kitesurf is not the aim of this article. It’s how I survived after making a characteristically idiotic decision. Off our bow lay the windswept gnarled islands of the Outer Hebrides, an archipelago with some of the oldest geological rock on Earth. A place people have been living for well over 5,000 years, since before the time of the pyramids. Of course things have changed much since the Neolithic Age, but it isn’t very apparent in the scenery. It’s a place that encourages taking
a look around. It’s a place that on the surface at least has escaped the gloss and glitter façade of “progress.” If you remove the odd ferry and fishing boat by sea, things are almost certainly as they have been for thousands of years. On our last trip up north a vicious low-pressure system hit us hard for a few days with loads of rain and winds upwards of 40 knots. At the same time the first big swell of the season stormed in from the west and I tried to position Discovery, our catamaran, in a protected spot, but close enough that we could possibly kite some of the waves. On the day the wind and swell peaked I found myself incapable of being smart and staying put. My role is to keep people on our boat safe, and that includes me. To kite to where the waves were I’d have to ride downwind nearly 10 miles, all of it dead offshore,
which meant if something were to happen to me or my gear I’d be in a desperate situation: offshore, alone, in big seas, and furious winds pushing me further away from land. Rescue was not even an option. I’d be totally on my own. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but I now understand the reason I decided to go out that day, even though every fiber of my inner soul screamed, “STOP!” So I pumped up a 7.5-meter kite, donned a 5/4 hooded wetsuit, kissed my girlfriend Jody good-bye, smiled at our guests, and screamed off downwind. The last thing I heard was Jody yell “be careful,” which spent a few too many seconds in my brain as I knew being careful had already been abandoned. Long after Discovery was eclipsed by distance and rain and wind, and long after I was truly alone and had no
chance of rescue, my kite could no longer withstand the 50-knot gusts. The kite started buckling and twitching uncontrollably and in no time I was completely out of control, racing across steep swells just trying to hang on. Then I crashed. I took one look at the shoreline and instantly pulled the release on my kite, knowing I had no chance of making land with a kite that could no longer fly. I had to start swimming immediately. I watched my gear blow out into the Atlantic for a brief moment, and suddenly got everything I had unconsciously craved: a healthy dose of raw fear. I wanted to feel adrenaline. I wanted to feel fear. I didn’t want to read about it on Google or in the headlines of the local paper. The world these days, especially right now, is awfully scary, but that’s not the kind of fear I’m talking about. I’m talk-
PHOTO: JODY MACDONALD
But a two-mile swim in 50-degree water in offshore winds, trying to make my way back to the safely moored Discovery certainly wasn’t in my mind when I launched my kite that morning. By Gavin McClurg
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