Last night I made an error. That error was that I didn’t act on the information I had available.
If you know me, you are aware that I arrived on the island a few days ago (11th), and I am about a week early to get into the apartment. I am comfortable however, to be in my tent on the beach. It’s quite warm, certainly T-Shirt weather.
It is only a couple of kilometres from the beach into town, so to avoid the hassle of setting up cooking facilities and dealing with washing up etc, I just hike into town to eat at one of the tavernas. My general appearance is a somewhat raggedy after a month on my motorbike, my beard long and I have certainly lost a few kg on my travels.
It seems I have become know among the local ex-pats as the priest with syphilis. Of course neither are true… the priesthood certainly wouldn’t have me after expressing my views as a fanatical atheist, and neither have I contracted any form of STD, albeit my nether regions still be somewhat tender from too much close contact with the bike seat.
The ‘priest with syphilis’ was a case of Chinese whispers. My beard giving me a Greek orthodox look, but in shorts, t-shirt and jacket started off as “He looks like a priest in civvies” – and for this I can thank Ex-Pat Annie Basson who came up with that description.
Last night, we got talking, and her conversation opener was this. Before moving onto her previously living on a narrowboat which doubled as her stained-glass/leadwork workshop and a million other things.
The information she imparted that night, the same information that I heard but completely ignored, nearly cost me my life.
There was a storm coming.
…
It was about two AM when the sound of the waves getting closer woke me up. As I was laying there in my sleeping bag, half awake, half asleep, still getting my bearings, listening to the rain slamming down on the nylon of the tent, I recalled the conversation.
How bad could it be though, I thought.
The wind was howling and the waves getting closer. The spray from the surf hitting the front of my tent with greater force than the rain from above. Would I ride out the storm or should I be thinking how to get out of this?
As I was climbing out of my sleeping bag and getting my boots on, that question was answered for me. A large wave came and flattened the front of my tent. Everything I had was inside this tent. Phone, iPod, laptop – all travel docs, banking stuff – everything. As the water receded, the fibreglass tentpoles popped back into place. I found my torch – it was surprisingly dry inside.
The second wave flattened the front of the tent again – squashing the poles down. The rocks on this beach were 15-30cm in size – smooth and rounded from years of erosion. The water was each side of me and I could hear these rocks rolling and bashing left and right. Everything was still pretty dry as I was stuffing it all into my rucksack. Again, the water receded. I was almost ready to go.
The third wave was huge. The front of the tent flattened, not like a wave had rolled up on, but more like an elephant had been dropped on it. The waves crashed up both sides and hit the cliff behind me – breaking over me, forcing me flat, folded in half, the weight of the water pinning me down. Tentpoles snapped – tearing through my favourite piece of North Face equipment (I had travelled in that tent for many years and was very sentimentally attached to it).
As the water receded I found a hole made by one of the broken tentpoles. Thrust my hands into it and tore it open. Outside was like all hell had broken loose. Even without the lightening there was so much white seafoam it was light enough to see without the torch. The wind was amazing, the spray from the sea stinging my face, the rain coming down in bucket-loads. I grabbed my tent at the ridge, snapping the remaining poles, pulling it together and hauling it over my should like Santa’s sack, and I dragged it up the beach to a goat-shed.
The rest of the night was sleepless, cold, wet – the remains of my tent strung up across the opening of the goat-shed to try and stop some of the wind and rain coming in. The rubbing alcohol from my first-aid kit enabled my to start a small fire in the back of the structure – but my sleeping bag and all my clothes were soaked. The fire did little to provide warmth.
As it got light, I ventured outside. I must had looked quite a sight! Jumping up and down, yelling ‘fuck you’ at the sea, toasting my win against mother nature with a half bottle of Havana, before deciding it was too cold in the wind and retreating inside once again.
The real danger hadn’t hit me until the old goat-herd [ex-navy guy, Mitsos] stuck his head in some hours later and said “I thought I’d find you dead!”
So, did I learn something? Yes – it is ALWAYS listen to ALL the available information. This whole situation could have been so much worse – and it also could have been completely avoided.
Has it stopped my from pushing myself and and my abilities, challenging the environment, testing myself? Certainly not. How will you ever know what you are capable of it you don’t push your personal boundaries?