Book Review: The Expedition, Book 1 – Dark Waters

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The Expedition: Book 1-Dark Waters
by Jason Lewis
Available now at BillyFish Books

Mixing the drama of a travel adventure with philosophical introspection, Jason Lewis’ account of the first human-powered circumnavigation of the earth is, simply put, an absolutely riveting and inspirational read.

In Book 1: Dark Waters–the first of three books to be released one month apart beginning August 1, 2012–Lewis’ 13-year journey begins as he and partner Steve Smith set sail for the United States from Portugal in a custom-built, 26-foot pedal-powered boat they call Moksha. The courage, patience and persistence they display on the three-month journey across the Atlantic is extraordinary, but that’s nothing compared to Lewis’ decision to skate across the United States on roller blades while Smith takes the “easier” option of biking. Each stage of Lewis’ journey would easily stand as a lifetime achievement for any other individual, and speaks to the unbelievable dedication and effort required to make it around this beautiful and amazing planet under your own power. 

While the book could easily stand on its own as a straight-forward travel adventure, Lewis smartly recognized his experience as an opportunity to help others recognize their role and responsibility on this planet. The journey offered him the opportunity to speak to hundreds of groups of children in 37 countries, and allowed him to raise $66,500 for a host of humanitarian efforts across the globe. To that end, Lewis’ experience stands as a guide for each of us to reference as we try to learn how to live better with one another, and how to better take care of the only Earth we’ve got. 

As one might expect, Lewis’ journey across the globe was fraught with danger at nearly every turn. The first major part of the voyage was the Atlantic crossing from Lagos, Portugal to Miami, Florida by pedal boat–an incredible physical, mental and emotional undertaking. As Lewis relates, the act of pedaling across the Atlantic leaves little room for error, and even the seemingly simple task of catching a fish can become an adventure. Here’s an excerpt describing Lewis’ encounter with a runaway dorado:

— — —

November 15. Day 29
1 a.m. There are many God-awful things that I’ve come to tolerate on this boat,
but getting up at all hours of the night to pedal for three hours will never be
one of them.

4 a.m. Just finished first graveyard shift – a real killer. Like motorway driving
at night when you’re dog-tired, except worse. Head slumping forward every few
minutes, then whipping back and smacking against the stern window.
(Journal entry)

Long-term fatigue, or Creeping Grey Funk as
we called it, became an evil thing lurking in the shadowy recesses of our
sleep-deprived minds, waiting to crawl in and feed as exhaustion grew. Slowly,
imperceptibly, it wound its way like a parasite into every aspect of our lives,
lessening our ability toexecute
tasks safely, and stealing even the tiniest scrap of pleasure from things we
once enjoyed, like reading a book, or cooking a meal. The rigid shift system
was becoming a double-edged sword. The same discipline that kept the pedals turning 24/7, and the
boat from drifting off course, allowed for only three hours of sleep at a time,
and never more than five in any 24-hour
period. After a fortnight of this,
we were turning into the living dead.

Steve suggested we break up the hamster
routine by doing a little fishing. On Madeira, we’d been befriended by Heinz, a
boozy old salt with an ivory beard and bushy
eyebrows. A former U-boat commander, Heinz made it his business to show up
every morning and pick holes in our preparations for the big crossing. The
other annoying habit he had was to bang on about fishing.

“Vat are you doingk for zer fees?” he asked
for the umpteenth time on the penultimate morning of departure.

Our response was always the same: “We’re not
going to bother Heinz. We have all the food we need.”

“But you must fees to survive! You must fees
to survive!”

On any other morning, he would chant this as
a mantra until we either found a way of getting rid of the old bastard or
fleeing ourselves.
Today, however, he reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a roll of
stout marlin line and a thumb-sized lure carved from wood. Furnished with
eye-catching tassels at one end, it was, according to Heinz, “Guaranteed to catch more fees zan you know vot to
do viz!”

We’d been trolling Lolita the Lure (so
nicknamed) for an hour a day since leaving Madeira, and caught not a damn
thing. The result of each day’s effort was so predictable it had become a
running joke. “You hungry?” Steve would ask, pulling in the line. “Let’s see
what Lolita has caught us for dinner tonight shall we?”

Something had to change. Lolita needed a
makeover.

Using red and black felt-tip pens, I gave Lolita a pair of
exotic Cleopatra eyes and sassy
smile. Provocatively curled Betty Boop eyelashes completed the picture of sex
appeal although, as Steve pointed out, the idea was to get the fish to
swallow the lure, not have sex with it.

Whatever. Within a minute of throwing out the
all-new pimped-out Lolita, the line strained to its limit, and a huge dorado
fish soared into the air twenty yards astern. All hell immediately broke loose.
The inside of the boat erupted into a melee of shouting, swearing, and shrieks of delight
as we pulled the gasping beast alongside. The challenge was now to land the
thing without it flipping off the hook. Retrieving the old sail bag we’d used
to store our Madeiran veggies, I jumped into the
water.

My plan was to scoop the fish into the bag,
which Steve could then haul aboard. The fish, not surprisingly, had other
ideas. As soon as it saw me, it shot under the boat, and started winding itself
plus the monofilament line round and round the propeller.

Events then took an unexpected turn. What
started out as a harmless bit of fun spiraled rapidly out of control.

The sail bag had slipped from my fingers
during the confusion, and was slowly drifting upwind. Or, to be precise, the
bag remained stationary in the water while Moksha
and I were blown downwind. I started to swim towards the bag. “I’ll just go
and grab it,” I yelled.

“You sure it’s worth it?” Steve shouted after
me.

I pretended not to hear, and kept swimming. Damn Steve, I thought irritably, being a safety officer as usual. After
all, the bag was only a few feet away.

But by the time I reached it,Moksha
was already sixty feet downwind, pushed by the wind and the waves.

On the long slog back, swimming breaststroke
with the bag around my neck, I tired easily. With our legs doing all the
pedaling, our upper bodies had lost what little conditioning they’d had on
land. A wave broke suddenly from behind, filling my nose and throat with
saltwater. I stopped to cough out the brine, losing valuable seconds as I trod
water. When I resumed my stroke, I looked up and saw the boat even farther
downwind. This was alarming. Moksha
was drifting faster than I could swim.

There’s nothing for it. Steve will have to come back and get me…

He was sitting on the stern, anxiously
watching my progress. Somehow he’d managed to retrieve the fish from the water
and had it clasped tight to his chest. Now I’d have to suffer the ignominy of
hearing him say, “I
told you so!”

“Steve!” I yelled. “I think I’m in trouble!”

His mouth opened and closed, but the words were taken
by the wind. I was about to call out again when my throat froze with the
terrible realization.

The fishing line …
fouled around the propeller…

In the time it took for him to rummage in the
stern compartment for a mask and a knife, go overboard and cut the tangle free,
then clamber back in and turn Moksha
around, we’d be completely separated.

Shit!I’ll have to make it back myself, or…

I remembered the story my father once told me of how,as a boy, he’d nearly
drowned off the beach at West Bay in Dorset. After the initial frantic struggle, he described the
sensation as being almost pleasurable, “like falling into a trance.” My
grandfather, watching from shore, ran in and dragged him out just in time.

Another surprise wave broke from behind,
flooding my lungs a second time. As I fought for air, what I took to be the
same woozy sensation began spreading throughout my body. Blood was thumping
against my eardrums. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Like the near miss with
the trawler, that interface between light and dark, life and death, seemed
perfectly normal, as if this was the way it was meant to be.

My arms grew steadily weaker, and my stroke
more erratic. I should have known hypoxia was kicking in when the sky turned
the colour of red wine and the water around me black ink, as though saturated
with blood. From the dying dorado, I thought
deliriously. Sharks sprang to mind. The
smell of blood will attract them, whip them into a feeding frenzy…

At that moment, something tripped in my
consciousness. While
the idea of drowning seemed tolerable, almost pleasant, being eaten alive by
sharks most certainly did not. The soporific state of quiet surrender vanished, replaced by a primal urge
to live welling up from the innermost depths of my being. And with it came
reality hurtling back
into sharp focus.

I began swimming for my life. My arms were screaming, but I knew that
keeping sight of Steve between the towering crests was the only hope I had.
Waves were breaking from behind, one after the other. Frothy sputum, whipped from the crests,
blurring my vision. Moksha slowly
slipped from view. As the seconds turned into minutes, I no longer knew whether
I was making progress, or even heading in the right direction. The only thing that kept
my spent arms turning was the certainty that sharks were closing in. Any second
I would feel razor-sharp teeth tearing into my flesh…

In those final seconds of hopelessness and
despair, going on as if for eternity, the fingers of my right hand collided with
something solid. I felt my wrist being grabbed–Steve heaving me on deck. When
all seemed lost, I imagined a divine hand reaching out and offering me my life
back.

Slumped on the stern deck, gasping for
breath, my eyes met the gaze of the dying dorado, its silent suffocation all too poignant.

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