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3-Peaks Heaven & Hell -Tarquin Cooper's experience of the 3-Peak Yacht Race 2007
The sailors haven’t slept for two days. None us have eaten much for three. Conditions have been quite a challenge. During the night a rogue wave struck, catapulting the skipper from the helm. Moments later, another wave struck and one of the crew was almost washed overboard. He was only saved from being washed out to sea by the skipper, who grabbed him with his injured arm that moments earlier he feared could not hold anything
Not a single of the boat’s electronic instruments work thanks to the starter motor packing up early on – so there’s no GPS, no depth gauge, no navigational tools, no barometer. And no engine. It’s a moonless night and the skipper, one arm hurting like hell, is hunting down the enemy with as much modern technology as the fictional 18th century Capt Aubrey of Master and Commander. To complete the picture, it’s even misty too.
Since the start, we’ve rammed the sandbar coming into the Menai Straits, been becalmed and run aground in the Swellies and entered harbour under sail in a Force 8-9 storm. And here we are, still in the race, battling on, about to enter the Corryvreckan Narrows, the gateway to Fort William. That’s when the mist suddenly clears and Nunatak is spotted ahead. Our skipper chances a move to the coastline in a bid to catch the faster currents. But it’s a gamble that doesn’t pay off.
Below deck, I am suddenly woken by the most appalling screeching noise I have ever heard. It’s worse than fingernails on a blackboard. At the same time my head slams the board at the end of my berth, three times. For a moment I am gripped by terror and make to grab the lifejacket and sprint up on deck. I look at my running partner Richard for guidance and for a second we just look at each other waiting for any instructions. But there are no cries for all hands on deck. We may have hit rocks but it seems it’s just another incident in what is turning out to be a very memorable 3 Peaks Yacht Race.
When I signed up to this race, I was promised it would be one of the best adventures to be had on the British Isles. As I rest my head back down in my berth and pull the damp sleeping bag up tight in a bid to quell my shivering from the cold, I start to appreciate that I am not being disappointed. I am not even aware that the most important stage of the race, the battle for Ben Nevis, is about to begin.
The Three Peaks Yacht race had been on my tick list for many years. It’s one of those adventure races that’s been around long before adventure racing became popular. It appeared a different class of event in a league of its own. Its aesthetic nature appealed to me too. Just doing the bog standard three peaks challenge had no appeal whatsoever – what an unbearable experience having to drive the length of the country! But sailing in between each mountain? That was something much more natural and attractive. I knew about the mountaineer sailor Bill Tilman too. I remember reading in Sir Chris Bonington’s brilliant Quest for Adventure as a boy that famous advert he placed in The Times. It remains one of the finest call to arms I’ve ever encountered. “Hands wanted for long voyage in small boat. No pay, no prospects, not much pleasure.”
It could have been written for the 3 Peaks Yacht Race! (In fact it refers to a journey he made to the Crozet and Kerguelen islands, a story worth reading in Mischief Among The Penguins.)
I’d come to climbing late in life, after university. My baptism into the mountains was as British as horizontal rain and pub pie and chips – there was no formal instruction. A cousin at Aberdeen university explained the rudiments of the sport over several beers, then dragged me up a vertical grade 4 winter route early the following morning in some borrowed ski gear and a pair of boots that were two sizes too big. Six months later, he, his brother and I tackled a pretty serious 6,000m (19,500ft) mountain in Peru in similar British style.
Fast forward a few years and it’s not difficult to see how the 3PYR should be such an obvious progression. The trouble, as many an adventurer has found, is how to find a place on a boat. I was fortunate in being able to pull some media strings. Men’s Fitness magazine were keen for an article to go in their adventure races section; the race committee were only too keen to assist for the publicity benefits that would bring to race sponsors Powerbar.
So that’s how I found myself one spring evening talking on the phone to a very animated Richard Ludlow, who was looking for a running partner to enter his tenth time. He was raving.
“It’s simply the greatest adventure race in Britain. It’s the ultimate team challenge – the sailors work their arses off for the runners; the runners work like hell for the sailors. There’s nothing else like it.”
But he warned me that it would be no walk in the proverbial park.
“It’s incredibly tough to survive sailing and then, when you’re absolutely exhausted, run an ultra-marathon. From a sailing angle, it’s incredibly perilous too,” he added.
“You can sail can’t you?”
Unfortunately, as I began to explain, my sailing experience was limited to a week’s course in an Optimist, exactly 25 years previously. And I seem to remember I had a teddy bear for company.
“Never mind,” he said. “We should try and get you a day in the boat beforehand though.”
The boat in question was a previous winner called Lightning Reflex, a 38’ Reflex skippered by Geoff West which I later learnt had the ominous sounding nickname of frightening defects! Richard did warn me that Geoff was the kind of skipper who was more concerned with events on deck than below. I would never have guessed, as I gingerly stepped on board for the first time in Barmouth shortly before the start. Below deck here was a mess of sheets, discarded sails, clothing and food everywhere. Someone was at work with a soldering iron. I assumed all boats must look like this.
The crew were Malcolm Corcoran, an ex Merchant Marine navigator and Clipper race veteran and Julian Thompson, all round experienced hand and good friend of Richard’s. If he sailed half as fast as he drove, I knew this would be no contest. A big man, Richard stressed that he was very strong.
The starting gun fires and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I’d hardly spent any time on a yacht before and here I am in the thick of a race. It’s massively exciting. The fleet looks magnificent. It feels like we’re at the head of an Armada. The sailors all have very serious faces on. I keep mine down and do as I’m told. Also with us is the camerawoman Justine Curgenven, one of the world’s top adventure sea kayakers. She’s shooting for the Channel 4 programme, Adrenalin Rush. Shortly after the start someone smells burning toast. At least that what we think it is. Strange, why would anyone be making toast? Justine takes her camera apart, worried something’s blown. It never occurs to anybody that the smell might have something to do with the boat’s own electronics.
Towards midnight our arrival into the Menai Straits is heralded by a large bump.
“It felt like we hit something,” I said later to Geoff.
“We did,” he replied, grinning.
With the famous sand bar now behind us, we enter harbour at Caenarfon in second place. Richard and I tear off across town in the driving rain, passing a girl bawling her eyes out in the High Street, clearly the worse for wear. After six miles our support man Ed Williams appears with the first of many fresh water bottles he is to provide over the next three days.
Then we turn off the road and head up Snowdon, reaching the summit at 3am. It’s cold, wet and windy – I can’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday night. As soon as the card is punched, Richard and I make the dash down the motorway track to Llanberis. Half way down he slips and lands badly. He doesn’t even cry-out – I’m impressed. (A week later a doctor diagnoses a fractured coccyx.)
The leg along the road back to the boat is murder. We have to make it back before the tide turns at 5am if we are to have any hope of clearing the Menai Straits. That means clearing over 7 miles in an hour. We both fear it’s over-ambitious but decide to give it our all anyway. Knowing that it could all be in vain is what hurts the most as we pound the miles on tarmac. We reach the boat at 5.30am after the longest seven miles I’ve ever run. It’s too late. Rich says something about it being ok to have a ‘grown man cry’ moment. I know what he means. Some shut-eye comes easily but after a few hours I hear the dreaded cry, ‘all hands on deck’. It can only mean one thing. We’re caught in the notorious swellies and are going backwards. The oars come out and half asleep, I start rowing for my life. It’s just enough to halt the slide but not enough to move us forward. For the next hour, this is where we stay taking it in turns on the oars.
Geoff suggests dropping anchor and having a cup of tea.
Silently, I scream, “yes, brilliant idea”. But instead Geoff opts to keep going. Eventually our efforts are rewarded. Things look up as Geoff spies a boat on the left bank moored at a different angle, an indicator that the current is not so strong over there. We get there and find that under sail, we have forward motion! The rest of the fleet follows suit. But just as it looks as though we’ve found our escape there’s another bump and a lurch. We run aground. This time it’s Jules who comes to the fore, demonstrating his formidable strength with an oar but it’s to no avail. Nothing will shift us but a rising tide and for that, we have to wait. And watch with sunken hearts as almost the entire fleet over-takes us. Across the water there are some exchanged shouts with a pleasure yacht dropping anchor.
“We don’t like the idea of this storm that’s on its way.”
Avoiding it is not an option for us. I slink below deck for some much needed rest before the inevitable excitement begins again. I’m curious. I’ve never sailed in a storm before.
When it hits, I am glad I am below deck, cocooned in a sleeping bag, grazing on my ‘feed bag’ of homemade flapjack and bags of dried fruit and nuts. On each tack I am violently sent rolling to the edge of my berth.
Whatever was once in the hatches above has long since been thrown onto the cabin floor, where a now a large puddle washes from side to side. I watch as the waves wash over us. The companion way hatch creates an opening where the water enters and rushes down the cabin ceiling to a point directly over my head. And then it finishes its journey, relinquishing itself onto my forehead, drip by drip. Fortunately, I’m wet anyway otherwise I might have had a sense of humour failure.
By the time we arrive in Whitehaven the following morning I feel like a cat that’s been through a washing machine and am actually looking forward to running another ultramathon – anything to get off the boat! The sailors have done us proud and put us back into fifth place, an incredible achievement.
With no motor, it’s quite a hairy feat arriving under sail. Malcolm alerts HM Coastguard. Geoff has a look of concentration on his face that I haven’t seen before. We’re coming in too fast! The sailors shout commands at each other. It looks like we’re going to hit another yacht!
I’m right on Richard’s shoulder. I’ve changed gear and frame of mind about half-an-hour ago. My job is to run and run hard. I’m ready. Then the fenders have their finest hour and with a bump, we’re alongside someone else.
“Right let’s go,” shouts Richard. And I leap over the railings and begin the stage to the summit of Scafell Pike.
“See you in about ten hours,” I shout, leaving the sailors to head to the nearest pub.
A disheveled Geoff turns to Justine’s camera; “This is not an easy race. I’ve done it before and I haven’t had this sort of problem. I’m shattered, I’m cold. I’m wet. I haven’t eaten anything for about a day. Oh God…”
Just getting to Scafell is a challenge. First is a nine mile cycle ride just to get into the Lake District. We ditch the bikes at the youth hostel. Then you have to climb up and over 550m Black Sail pass, itself a formidable obstacle. Throw in sleep deprivation, wobbly sea-legs and a nasty headwind and it begins to have the hallmarks of what mountaineers refer to as a ‘memorable experience’. Rich and I clear the pass and get down to Wasdale head. Now it really begins to hurt. The ascent is slow and laborious. We pass a couple of teams coming down, all cheery smiles. B*stards!
As we gain height the wind picks up. It’s really quite strong. By the time we climb the final few hundred feet its gusts are so strong we have to employ all our strength just to avoid being knocked over. Several times I am quite literally blown several metres off the track. I’m also at the limits of what my lightweight gear can take. A team of walkers fully suited and booted in waterproofs turns back. We’re in shorts! Hood up and head down, we plod the final leg to the summit. Richard’s hands are so cold they don’t work. I punch his card and we turn immediately around.
At Wasdale I want to stop, I want to stay and eat the free flapjacks and drink orange squash. But Richard is insistent.
“Come on Tarquin.”
I’m beginning to wane now. The ascent back up Black Sail is a killer. Going back down isn’t much better.
“Come on Tarquin, stride it out,” calls Richard, ten metres ahead.
“Do it for the sailors.”
My thoughts at this point are, fortunate for my friendship with Richard, unprintable. I content myself with silent curses. But on the bike I’m ok again. Even the monster switchback climb doesn’t faze me. I keep the wheels turning. Then on the flat, with the wind now behind us, Richard and I are able to floor it back to Whitehaven. As we enter the outskirts of town, we encounter some interesting examples of the indigenous population.
I can barely believe my eyes as a group of hoodies jump on some lad and start filling him in – in broad daylight!
“Leave him alone,” I scream.
I’ve been hard at it for ten hours, endured gale force winds, cold and haven’t slept much. The adrenaline is firing on all cylinders with the boat almost in sight. I’m well psyched and ready for anything! Maybe it’s the mad glint in my eye, or perhaps the sheer bewilderment of seeing this disheveled lunatic appear. But they back off. Wisely – for all our sakes, (particularly mine!).
Pumped, Richard and I hoover up the last couple of miles and jump on board our waiting boat. We’ve crawled up another place and we leave in third. There is no let-up, no time to collapse and catch our breath. It’s really blowing something. The sea is violent and there are huge swells. We both strip within seconds, fighting like crazy in the hurried few moments of calm to sort ourselves out. Get wet kit off. Put dry top on. Make protein drink. Richard beats me to the horizontal position just in the nick of time. We hit the first wave and I’m thrown to one side trying to pull some fresh pants on. One last effort. Come on! I make it to the berth, and jump in. I cling on to my water bottle in one hand and my food bag in the other like a toddler clutching a comfort blanket. Ahead lies 38 hours of the some of the most challenging sailing the crew will encounter with the wind gusting at times to Force 9, maybe 10. (It’s difficult to say given we had no instruments!). I hunker down and remember that my job is to rest. I can only wonder at the absolute battering the guys take up on deck. And they work like slaves. Occasionally, one of them staggers slowly down below and sleeps wherever they collapse, in their clothes. They may get to eat steak and chips while we’re running up mountains, but this leg leaves me in no doubt over how much debt is owed to Geoff, Jules and Malcolm.
“I thought I was tired,” Geoff later told me, explaining our little bump along the rocks near the Corrywreckan Narrows. “I knew I was after that!”
It’s the kind of brilliant understatement I just love.
“What you have to remember,” Richard says, “is that 99% of boats would have given up by now.”
I love the fact we’re still in the race. This is what I came for – adventure! Richard has a fractured coccyx, Geoff has an injured arm, Malcolm has been in the drink and the state of Lightning Reflex would horrify your average weekend sailor. We may be on one knee and taking hits but we’re still fighting!
Dawn breaks. I want action. I’m ready for the final hill. I’ve never been so psyched about anything. But we’re still a way off yet. The hours pass painfully slowly. Up ahead, just a few hundred metres away is Nunatak. They left Whitehaven over an hour before us. Below deck skipper Mike Jaques is giving his runners William Clive and Maria Leijerstam the full Henry V speech, the thrust of which is don’t bother returning unless it’s in second place. (In fact, the TV crew weren’t entirely comfortable about using this clip unsure whether he was being absolutely serious. He was!)
Will and Maria are bricking themselves. And who could blame them. The oars have come out again on Lightning Reflex and we’re gaining on them. We hit the pontoon seven minutes after them. Jules leaps out and turns human anchor, using his formidable bulk to bring us to a sharp halt. Rich and I tear off up the gangplanks. We’re on a mission. Vlad the Impaler may have come first long ago but the battle for second place is where it’s at.
A wrong turn into an industrial park costs us valuable minutes. Sort it Richard! But once we get on the path I start to feel more confident. Physically, I’ve never felt better. I’m having to stop myself from going too hard.
We spot them after about half an hour. Richard wants to play tactical and hang back. (This had nothing whatsoever to do with a request from Ron Isles to time our over-taking to when the helicopter was flying overhead!). But I’m having none of it. “Let’s take them early and put as much distance between us as we can.”
My vote wins. At the inevitable, we exchange formalities, smiling like assassins.
“Hey, almost over. Not far to to.”
“Yeah, well done, keep going.”
Us: “We’ve got them!”
Them: “Oh no… Come on!”
Reaching the summit is fantastic and we think we’ve got it in the bag but as we turn and descend we spot Maria and Will. How did they catch up? (They ditched the zig-zags and went straight up.) It puts the fear of the Almighty into Rich and I. We’ve got a race on our hands now. Cursing our complacency we welly it down the mountain like cheese rolling contestants. My fingers go numb. Then my hands. When I start feeling pins and needles in my face I really start to worry. I can’t move my lips and speak like Rocky Balboa.
“Richard, I can’t feel my face.”
“Don’t worry, that’s normal,” he shouts.
(I’m still yet to get to the bottom of this strange occurance. Various theories include a low blood sugar level, something about exceeding my anaerobic threshold and worryingly as it came from a doctor – a stroke!)
We stagger, stumble and roll. Then out of the valley floor lifts the TV chopper filming from above. Suddenly it’s like we’re in Apocalapse Now. The adrenaline goes crazy. I’m shouting at Richard. I’m not entirely sure why. I’m running far faster than my body should be able to allow. The concentration required to avoid going flat on my face is hideous. Every foot placement is a carefully balanced judgement. There are walkers now on the route. Some of them are clapping. My water bottle ran out long ago and I stop to drink straight from a stream. I’m beyond caring about things like hygiene. Inevitably, I need to urinate after half an hour later. But I’m not stopping. If they can do it in the Tour de France. I feel the warm rush down my legs and feel strangely impressed with myself. I’ve never done that before!
On the road Rich and I know we’ve got it in the bag but there’s no let up in the pace. We are taking no chances. Rich, is unstoppable and has to slow to allow me, 17 years his junior, to catch him every few hundred metres. I cannot believe the fitness of this man – and with a fractured coccyx to boot! The last mile along the canal, I dare to believe that the finish is within reach. The feeling as Rich and I cross it is beyond words. In fact, he sums it up perfectly when a microphone is thrust in his face and he’s asked if he can sum up the experience.
“No,” he replies.
A year on, I’m still in awe of the race.
Tarquin Cooper
March 2008
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