The Risk in Being Alive: One Man's Adventures Across the Planet PDF
Preview The Risk in Being Alive: One Man's Adventures Across the Planet
O M ’ A NE AN S DVENTURES A P CROSS THE LANET BRIAN HANCOCK Nomad Press A division of Nomad Communications 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Copyright © 2003 Nomad Press All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. The trademark “Nomad Press” and the Nomad Press logo are trademarks of Nomad Communications, Inc. Printed in the United States. ISBN 0-9659258-8-9 Questions regarding the ordering of this book should be addressed to Independent Publishers Group 814 N. Franklin St. Chicago, IL 60610 Cover artwork by David Morin Design and interior illustrations by Bruce Leasure Edited by Susan Hale and Eric Goldwarg Nomad Press, PO Box 875, Norwich, VT 05055 “There is always a certain risk in being alive, and if you are more alive, there is more risk.” —Henrik Ibsen For Tomas—I hope this book inspires you to have some adventures of your own. FOREWORD By Skip Novak In the summer of 1979 I was due to skipper the sixty-five- foot ketch Independent Endeavour on a commemorative race from Plymouth, England, to Fremantle, Western Australia, with a stop in Cape Town. I had found most of the crew by July, most of whom I had sailed with before. We were all in our twenties and about to embark on a great adventure. We were still lacking a sailmaker for the trip, and I was trawling the waterfront for candidates. “Anybody around?” I asked a trusted Kiwi skipper who had just crossed the Atlantic. “Yeah, try Brian Hancock, he’s a South African, still wet behind the ears, a smartass, but a good shipmate. We picked him up in the Caribbean, just up from Cape Town. That’s him on the dock there repairing a sail cover.” I walked over. “Interested in sailing to Australia via South Africa in September?” I asked, as he cranked away on a manual sewing machine. He looked like a kid. “Sure, what’s the deal?” he answered with a confidence that belied his age. “It’s the Parmelia Race. As usual there is no deal. You can join us next week.” “Why not, I’ll be there,” was his quick reply. Brian Hancock, or Mugsy, as he was known then, was twenty-one years old. He had just signed on for a three-month voyage after a five-minute conversation. No pay or other prospects were forthcoming, but that was the way it was done back then, in what I call the “Golden Age” of ocean racing. kviik Things were generally casual, sometimes haphazard, at times reckless. In short, it was all about youth. So began a twenty-year friendship that, among other things, has put over seventy thousand miles of blue water under a common keel. We sailed together on Alaska Eagle in the Whitbread Race in 1981–82, and again on Drum in 1985–86. We also raced to Uruguay with the Soviets on Fazisi in the 1989–90 Whitbread. There were many other minor voyages, as well. We hit if off from the start—both ironic, able to laugh at people’s misfortunes, and appreciative of the differences in race and nationality with a benign sense of humor which today is considered very “politically incorrect.” We both came from disenfranchised backgrounds. If you have traveling in your blood from the beginning, Chicago, where I grew up, is just as restrictive as Pietermaritzburg, where Brian grew up. When other twenty-year olds were contemplating careers as doctors or lawyers, or planning business empires, people like us, and god knows there were many, had one simple agenda— to see the world. In both our cases, sailing was our ticket out, Joseph Conrad the author of choice. Those were the days when you lived from a sea bag and could move at twenty-four hours’ notice—to anywhere on the planet. We were nomads. Those in the genre blew with a metaphorical wind taking the path of least resistance, while paradoxically searching for another epic challenge. We were opportunistic, certainly not for material gain, as there was little, and also not for reasons of climbing any ladder—no, we were instead hungry for the next bold move, the next lot of shipmates to laugh at or with, always anticipating riding that next wave. kviiik For an ocean sailor, it is all about that moment of toughing it out in heavy weather with all hell breaking loose, and knowing that you’re still in control. At other times it’s more serene, simply being at the wheel while carving a long surf in the deep blue. Brian was one of the best I sailed with, having both an appreciation for the serenity and a competence for the storms. The many sensations you experience at sea focus your mind in order to rest your soul—this in turn gives you the energy to want to do it all over again. It’s an addiction. It’s risk. It’s simplicity. We can’t imagine a life without it. Robert Service, in “The Men That Don’t Fit” wrote, “it’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones who win the lifelong race.” I’m sure he’s right. Here we are in middle-age, landed, but not grounded. Brian is still scheming and planning the next move. In fact he called me this morning to discuss plans he has for skippering a big catamaran in the Cape to Rio race. I am the same. Long-term commitment in the workplace is an anathema, freedom everything, or at least a sense of it. Our sea bags have, of course, grown. We now have houses to keep them in. E-mail is the secret to our subsistence. Somehow, with no foundation whatsoever, we just know that things will turn out alright. Common experience in the field, that’s the thing. The traveling by land or by sea is the thread that has kept us together. Frankly, I think I would rapidly tire of Brian in a “drawing room” relationship, and he of me. So we keep voyaging, both tied to our separate helms, reaching hard with a driving spray in our face. We wouldn’t have it any other way. I hope you enjoy his book—it’s a good read, written from the heart and told by a master storyteller. kixk kxk
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