The Risk in Being Alive: One Man's Adventures Across the Planet

287 Pages·2003·5.49 MB·English

by  Brian Hancock

O M ’ A
NE AN S DVENTURES
A P
CROSS THE LANET
BRIAN HANCOCK
Nomad Press
A division of Nomad Communications
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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.
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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.
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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.
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