"Solo"

Tomorrow my wife Karen is going to put me out on ‘solo’ and I’m both excited and nervous about the prospect.

I once worked as an instructor for Outward Bound in the UK and Southern Africa. The twelve years I spent with this remarkable charity informed so much of what I understand of humanity as well as delineating my aspirations for a life well lived. Briefly, Outward Bound is an international charitable organisation (nearing its eightieth anniversary), which primarily provides personal development courses in the outdoors and through outdoor activities. As the name Hoover is synonymous with vacuum cleaners, so is Outward Bound with outdoor personal development training. Those of you who know me will understand how firmly my attitude towards living is anchored in the humanistic precepts of Outward Bound, originating as they did from the great educationalist, Kurt Hahn. Google his name and I hope you’ll agree with me that much of the philosophy he espoused in the mid-twentieth century is as relevant today in the twenty first.

Outward Bound courses by their nature, provided myriad opportunities for powerful personal insights for the course participants. One of the privileges of my life work were hundreds of notable moments when I facilitated significant new awareness for individuals or groups, knowing they would embody this for the benefit of their futures. The ‘mountains speak powerfully’ and through many outdoor challenges, people came to realise the limits they set themselves were eminently flexible - outwards. Witnessing this occur so many times, is a strong reason why I seek this process for myself when I undertake my kayaking journeys or other small adventures. I have come to the conclusion that the outdoor personal development process develops resilient self awareness. Resilient because the metaphors are powerful enough to anchor the moment the awareness came to light, for continued future reference.

A key element of the traditionally long Outward Bound courses (three weeks in length), was the ‘Solo’. Here, the course participants would be individually placed, out of sight of each other, in an area of remote wildness, where they would spend 24 to 48 hours on their own. They would have the means to construct a rudimentary shelter, have basic food rations and all ‘luxuries’ would be taken off them. No books (apart from notebook and pen), no cameras, nowadays no phones and no watches. The purpose wasn’t to elicit individual survival skills but to provide a rare opportunity for contemplative solitude. It is highly uncommon for us in our lives to enjoy total solitude without any distractions. We often think of ourselves alone but in the background there maybe a television, a radio, and these days our phones and the internet. Somehow or other, we are permanently connected to a modern pace of life. Even during my long kayaking journeys when I may be alone for three to four days, I am still connected through online activities, texting and informative sources like my radio. It was hoped for the participants, the removal of everyday distractions would provide a somewhat challenging experience of enjoying solitude - aloneness.

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Solitude - the glory of being alone.

The solo took place mid-course when the individuals were now aware of the personal development process and would have the opportunity to test new awareness out after the solo during the latter stages of the programme. Invariably, the notion of complete solitude was alien to most and a great challenge to many. It certainly wasn’t an activity we could take lightly with plenty of emphasis on safety and the emotional well being of the participants. However, it was the element of the long course programme I enjoyed facilitating. Listening to the excited chatter on the night everyone returns from their solo told me all I needed about the importance of this powerful personal development course element. Of course, not everyone enjoyed the experience. There were often quite a few who decided to make their way back to the base before the allotted time was complete. Each individual would be placed in a suitable spot to create a shelter and shown the defined boundary of their solo site. The importance of remaining within this area was pressed on them and they were instructed to return to the base if they felt unsafe or unhappy and not to seek out other participants, thereby breaking their solitude. If time was given by the instructor into establishing a meaningful reason for the activity and framing it so it held relevance, most if not all participants would embrace the challenge.

As an instructor, solo was a time of rest. It was welcome down time from the rigours of delivering a high energy course. In Wales, we would link the solo with the middle expedition so in the end five days and nights were spent out of the centre. We would arrive at one of the four wooden cabins we used in the expansive Dyfi Forest from the expedition to find trayfuls of solo rations and other rewards. For the instructor there would be our solo bag where we would have put our books, our Sony Walkman, or other little luxuries we would treat ourselves to while our group was out on solo. After placing the individuals out, all that remained was a leisurely 24 or 48 hours where we went and visually checked on them three times a day. The rest of the time was ours. When the time was up, we would collect each individual, chat to them about their experiences and send them on their way back to the base where a huge fry up breakfast was being prepared. The following hours would be given to eliciting awareness through hearing each person’s story and what insights they may have gained.

I remember feeling a level of envy at the end of every solo I delivered because I had never experienced what they had just completed. I had never been on my own for that length of time without my watch and rudimentary kit. As I have said, I am used to solitude but not total solitude. This is an experience I have yet to encounter - until tomorrow this is.

With this dreadful pandemic gripping our nation and the subsequent curtailing of activity, it’s not possible for me to sea kayak to the islands I have wanted to bivouac on. It struck me that in a way, through our social isolating, we are undertaking our modern day solos and really, this will be a wonderful opportunity for me to undertake my first and probably only, proper solo experience. Karen will walk with me to the secluded location I have chosen close to Tobermory and leave me there for a full 48 hours. Two nights and two days. When the time comes, she will walk out and collect me. I will follow the rules I set the participants on my courses; no watch, no camera, no reading book, no modern gadgets, basic shelter, basic rations, sufficient clothes and a note book and pen.

I am both ready for this and reticent too. I’ve conducted my own risk assessment with regard to the state of my mental health. I am entirely confident I will be OK and not detrimentally suffer from my solitude. I know and trust myself enough to return home if this waivers. I have no desires to complete my suicide. I will be safe.

I will write up my experience here on my blog when I return. See you in two days time. :)

Endurance

Lying awake at 3am under a wildly flapping tarp, the icy rain spattering an ear bursting discordant tattoo in gusting bursts, I began to wonder what all this was about? At the tender age of 56, why do I continue to seek out moments of difficulty and hardship for the sake of doing so? A bivouac on a small Scottish island simply just to say I’ve done so - why? Not only this, but a bivouac a month on different islands. Ah, this begins to make some sense of the why. There is a pattern here. Add in the mix a fundraising angle, and the reasons become clearer. But still, bivouacking in some of the worst winter weather to realise these abstract goals? Why do I choose to do this to myself - push myself physically and psychologically?

A straightforward answer quite glibly is; “Because it’s there.”

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To Serve, To Strive and Not to Yield.

One notion is seeking the heroic quest, placing myself in the role of hero. Here I am the protagonist in search of adventure. Seeking goals I set for myself and setting about attaining them. The tale of the hero is as ancient as time itself. Humans thrive on such stories and many of us dream of these occurring for ourselves. The heroic ancient tale of Odysseus inspired the emergence of the Outward Bound movement and their motto; “To serve, to strive and not to yield” is attributed to Tennyson’s poem of that Ancient Greek adventure. Working as I did for twelve years as an Outward Bound instructor, I could not help imbuing this tenet of the motto and taking it to heart, many of my decisions to immerse myself in adventure guided by those simple principles. To serve - my community (fundraising), to serve myself. To strive - to reach out beyond the normal in my life. Not to Yield - this then is the crux; face the risks, the hardships, the solitude, the discomfort and the joys with equanimity.

Courage is one attribute at the heart of this drive within me. It manifests itself in how I explore for myself how far I’m willing to go before courage gives way. In achieving this, I discover the possibility of extending preconceived limitations which then serve to strengthen a healthy view of myself. Through placing myself in situations where my resolve is tested, I gain insights into my ever-developing personality. I am fascinated by this evolutionary process and I’m eager to understand it all the more.

Endurance on its own is a fascinating subject. The ability to endure is an attribute all people manifest many times in their lives; living with an illness, living though loss, a difficult work environment, unhappiness, loneliness, and more. There are those though who willingly seek endurance; ultra-distance runners, Himalayan mountaineers, deep sea divers, and many more. I am in awe of the many who test themselves to the limits.

Sea kayaking is not in my mind an extreme sport where endurance counts, but there have certainly been high endeavour achievements where the kayakers will have faced extreme challenges; crossing the Atlantic (3 times by an elderly Polish man), crossing to New Zealand from Australia, a woman kayaking alone from Europe to Australia, a woman paddling solo around the Americas having already circumnavigated Australia, and those of the crossings to the Faroes from Scotland and crossing back to Scotland from Iceland! There are many more fine achievements I haven’t listed here.

The severity of these sea kayak challenges are beyond me, but they illustrate what sea kayaking has to offer me and fulfil my desire to experience my tenacity in the face of hardship - to test my endurance.

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Outward Bound Aberdovey

Why is this important to me? Again it’s an existential matter - I experience discomfort and pain, therefore I am. By sitting with discomfort I’m seeking enlightenment. As a result, I will enjoy clarity of thought and visionary insights pertaining to myself, my world and my relationship with others. In many respects I’m not unlike a 9thC monk seeking solace through the hardship of a contemplative cell in a dark cave or perched on a sea stack on the west coast. The rigours of the experience expunge the distractions of everyday life and help focus, in that moment, what really matters. Attempting a similar level of meditative practice in a benign setting does not allow for deeper insights. My mind skitters across the surface of any deeper thought, too easily distracted by perfunctory matters.

When I worked for Outward Bound, we used an activity called ‘Solo’ as a means of encouraging course participants to consider more deeply their Outward Bound experience and hopefully how this reflects in their lives in general. The activity was designed to provide an element of hardship which would encourage resourcefulness from the student. They were provided the means to construct a rudimentary shelter, a basic set of rations and the means to make a hot drink. Of course they had spare clothing and their sleeping bags. They were not allowed to wear watches, carry phones, use cameras or have any other means of unwanted distraction. They were allowed their course log-book and a pen. An Outward Bound solo occurred, whatever the weather. For many participants, this experience was the highlight of their course. This was because for 36 or 48 hours they endured complete solitude, with bare essentials throughout whatever weather conditions occurred at the time. For all of them, this was a totally unique and novel experience, probably never to be repeated. At the course end, I heard many times students describe the enlightening insights they gained from their solo.

It is not lost on me I seek to emulate this process for myself during most of my sea kayaking journeys. I choose solitude for this main reason. I choose simplicity without the encumbrance of extraneous equipment. I choose difficulty over easiness and I choose remoteness and wildness. The feeling of accomplishment after completing a gruelling solo challenge is a most pleasant reward. With every accomplishment and setbacks too, my wisdom incrementally increases. My tenacity in the face of hardship and possible danger is possible because I have accrued the wisdom to understand these difficult moments will eventually pass. Probably more important than cognitive understanding is an all encompassing acceptance. Accepting the difficulty as an impermanent experience, no matter how intolerable it may be. Nevertheless, there will be times when the level of discomfort overrides my ability to see it through. This is when I have to be even more vigilant because it is in these moments I may make a poor decision. There follows an internal dissonance choosing whether to follow on with the course of action or abandon it altogether.

The ability to be tenacious is not only about physical prowess but overcoming the mental challenges too. My mind is continually assessing the situation, the course of progress, the risks and possibility of failure. Throughout the day I will be forever questioning myself and checking I’m essentially doing the right thing, always seeking an opportunity to escape but never following this option. Overcoming negative thinking is as strong a process as coping with the physical discomfort. Facing these thoughts head on and challenging self-limiting perceptions requires an almost constant internal dialogue where the wise-self within me encourages the nervous-self to take the chances.

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Cape Wrath 2015

The rewards for tenacity and endurance are for me, sublimity. Invariably I will find myself on the sea in a situation I would not have attained if it weren’t for the effort I had exerted. Rounding Cape Wrath on my own during my 2015 kayak journey around Scotland is a fine example. I was fearful right up to the point I arrived at the Cape. A number of times I tempted myself with a return to the sheltered waters of Kinlochbervie. Instead, beginning before sunrise, I set off with purpose on a day’s paddling which I knew would test me to my limit. The fear was real and so were the temptations to turn back. When I arrived at the cape, I found myself swallowed by the glorious immensity of the place, the indefinite oceanic landscape, the neck arching cliffs, the cacophonous birds, dervishly wheeling above, the exhalation of the waves gently spending themselves on the cliff bases, and the great arch - the portal I would kayak through marking the end of my journey up the western seaboard to the northern. My innate endurance had brought me to this point. An endurance informed by wisdom, tenacity and willingness to face risks.

I choose to endure the difficult because I know this difficulty is impermanent, beyond which wonderful new experiences may lie. I choose to endure because I am offered enlightening insights into my self. I choose to endure because I enjoy the challenge, setting myself against myself, never a competition with the sea or nature. I choose to endure because from this experience, I realise I’m able to endure other aspects of my life, primarily my fight with depression. So often I remind myself to sit with my depressive discomfort because it will pass. I do not endure to show off or to seek fame. This is a private and personal process for me. Some challenges may appear impossible but these are only limited by my imagination. Facing the challenge no matter how arduous this may be, adds the flavour to the recipe of achievement.

Ground-rush

In my life so far, I have completed only two parachute jumps. The first as a fund-raiser for a friend and the second the day after the first, because I had enjoyed it so much. They were static line jumps from two thousand feet high, involving the classic process of pushing out of an open light aircraft door, arms and legs akimbo, yelling (or screaming) - "One thousand, two thousand, three thousand..... check canopeeeee....!" These jumps took place in 1986 and so the mists of time have mellowed my memory of them since then. However, I do recall that I felt more fear during the second jump than I did the first. 

Analysing this now, I make the assumption that the first jump was one of pure excitement and because I had never jumped before, I really had no fearful expectations apart from the possibility that my parachute might malfunction. The rest of the experience was purely an adrenalin fuelled moment, which I had longed to complete ever since I was a young boy. I loved flying. I had been an Air Force Cadet at secondary school and I took any opportunity I could to fly in the ancient Chipmunk aircraft on summer camps and regular unit trips down to the nearest RAF airfield. I also gained my Glider Pilot wings before I passed my driving test, flying solo at the age of sixteen. My solo flight lasted just over sixty seconds and earned me the right to volunteer at the RAF Gliding School every Saturday, with solo flying at the end of the day, for two years after. My first solo glider flight is worthy of a separate story in itself.

So, by the time I found myself shuffling towards the gaping doorway in a Cessna aircraft, high above the quintessential rolling Herefordshire countryside, I was an avid aviator of sorts, who wondered what it would be like to hurl myself from an aircraft and drift down to earth under a silken canopy. I felt no fear, simply excited anticipation. The poor man who was sitting beside me on the cabin floor was weeping silently. Our relative perceptions of this mutual experience couldn't have been more different.

The first jump itself was everything I had hoped for. The complete exhilaration of sitting in the open doorway, my legs dangling with nothing below them until the ground far below and then the command, "Go!", followed by the few seconds of buffeting mayhem as the parachute snapped and cracked open and my body hanging motionless beneath the ochre canopy. These were the days before the 'square' canopies and the large round billowing mushroom above me spilled the air softly, just like the handkerchief parachutes I used to make for my plastic soldiers when I was a boy. What will remain with me in memorable crystal clarity for ever, is the silence. For the brief minute or so I was drifting earthwards, I was suspended in a solitudenous silence which, quite simply, took my breath away. It was one of those perfect moments of absolute awareness. It was probably the first time in my life where I was conscious of all that was occurring - around me, to me and for me.

Less than two minutes after leaving the plane, I neared the ground and seconds later, I saw the hardened grassy surface of the airfield rushing to meet me. With a thud which extorted an unbidden, "Ooft!" from my lungs, I hit the ground and I executed what I thought to be a worthy parachute roll. The air in the canopy dissipated and it collapsed in a whispering rustle beside me. My first ever parachute jump was complete and I was elated!

Imbued with confidence, back at the parachute club offices, I readily signed up for another jump the next day!

Twenty four hours later and once again I'm sitting on the cabin floor of the Cessna aircraft and this time there isn't a weeping man beside me. Instead, it's me who was feeling the nerves. With the naïve and excited anticipation no longer present, I was free to contemplate the possibilities of risk and failure. My stomach was tense and I was not enjoying the moment as much as I hoped I would. The moment of the jump arrived and instead of sheer exhilaration swamping my senses, I was agitated and matter of fact. I want the jump to be over. What I remember of that moment is fearing the landing. I looked forward to the moments of hanging silently beneath the billowing canopy but it was the final seconds and the rush to the ground which filled me with fear.

Needless to say, everything was fine and the jump was effortless and enjoyable. Even my landing was not as I had feared, though I do remember thumping onto the airfield as hard as the day before. 

Now, in the present day, I'm about to embark on my third major sea kayaking fundraising trip and I'm feeling the nerves. There is no longer first expedition naivety to mask my concerns and I am finding myself dwelling on aspects of my forthcoming journey which require particular attention because of possible hazards and the risks involved. Similarly too, I am worrying about my overall ability to pull this venture off - to succeed in its purpose. I worry that because I have been successful in past sea kayaking adventures, folks will have expectations of me doing so again and I have much to live up to. I realise that more than anything, I am expecting a lot of myself and it is actually myself who I don't want to disappoint. As the departure date for my journey draws closer, I am experiencing a sense of ground-rush, time concertinaing and the many important preparatory tasks rushing towards me. The memory of my parachute jumps thirty two years ago reveal themselves clearly in my mind and it is the memory of the ground-rush which I feared the most.

What I realise though, is to hold onto the recollection of that incredible moment hanging in space under the parachute canopy, alone and in awe of the world around me and below me, enveloped in peace and serenity. For it is this experience of solitude, alone on the vastness of the ocean, which fills me with this peace I crave in my life. This is why I return to these journeys in my sea kayak, time and again. The senses of fear and the ground-rush of anxiety then, are merely distractions which serve to heighten my preparedness to safely enjoy my oceanic solitude.

The moment I scrunch my kayak off the shore and into the sea on the 7th May, will be like the moment I'm dangled my legs out of the aircraft door for the second time all those years ago. All that awaits is the final push, and I'm away, encompassed in a world where anything is possible.