McClure - Beyond limits : a life through climbing

Thailand 1993

I was in open water now, far away from port. Sitting back in the sun I tried to relax aboard the wooden long-tail boat as it pitched and yawed through the choppy waves of the warm Andaman Sea off the west coast of Thailand. Shading my eyes I tried to judge the distance to my destination: a distant strip of shimmering white limestone hovering above the sea. The connection between water and land blurred in the humid air, making it look closer than it really was or maybe further; hard to tell. One thing was for sure, it was a fair way off, a kilometre at least. As the swell increased, my mind wandered. I figured I could probably swim it if I really had to; optimistic as usual about my physical abilities, I wouldnt, to be fair, have stood a chance. Suddenly the guidebook description of a simple journey out to the resort of Railay Beach appeared to have been somewhat under-estimated, but with the promise of climbing heaven, any journey would have been worth the risk.

Obviously the battered, floating wreck wasnt going to sink, but there was no harm in making a plan, just in case. I glanced over at my bloated POD rucksack; thered be no rescue for this monster. Filled with essential stuff that apparently no one else needed, it looked out of place, the other cool rucksacks barely big enough to hold my lunch. They belonged to the other people on board hardened travellers with well-established tans. I should have felt at home, being five months into my big Asia experience, but I still felt like a bumbly.

Boarding the boat in the sun at the port of Krabi Id tried to look like Id been travelling forever, dumping my bag in the back and taking a seat up front, sandals off, feet bare to the rotting wood and salty puddles in the ever-leaking hull. Others took their places further back, no doubt not needing a prime view, having seen it all before. In reality, they knew that as we left port and the wind picked up and the chop grew bigger, the boat would be tossed around like a matchstick, soaking the front with spray. Attempting to look like it was no big deal I slid towards the rear as the waves grew, resisting the urge to ask if it was always like this; the boat seemingly wholly inadequate for the current conditions. No one appeared fazed, particularly not the driver who, between cigarettes, casually bailed water from the boat as if hed been doing it all his life. I glanced at my bag again, my whole world packed inside. Mentally I scanned the contents: clothes, sleeping bag, trainers, torch, general junk stuff that I could replace for peanuts, if I had any peanuts. The passport and minimal amount of cash would be trickier, though do-able, but my beloved diary was invaluable; my friend out here in my new life, it was tethered to me like a toddlers blanket. I needed it to talk to, to pour my feelings into when no one else would listen. If this boat sank, I was going down with the book. Without the book Id really have nothing. There used to be a lot more to my world, a lot more than I could fit in a bag or on the pages of a green-lined scrapbook, but Id left it all behind what seemed like a very long time ago. So long ago that there seemed no life before this, nothing I could relate to. That had crumbled away to leave a shell of what I assumed I once was. There had been a plan giving focus and direction, but it was now long forgotten and as distant as a dream; disconnected and random.

I found my thoughts drifting off despite the salt water stinging my eyes and the ever-present danger of simply tipping over and instantly drowning. It was easy to do these days, drift aside, and there was a lot of stuff going on between the ears that needed untangling. I had to wonder why Id left my home in Sheffield. Apparently I was on the travelling trip of a lifetime, supposedly the best time of my life, but perhaps I was just on the conveyer belt of student kids taking the easy path, following what the others did because I couldnt think of anything else to do. School, college, university, the classic gap year all part of the easy path; the path of least resistance. It seemed that way, my own journey; un-thought out and ill-considered. Most people use their travel time as a last big break before embarking on a well-scripted and willingly accepted life: employment, house, kids, pension. Its what most people do. For me it was different, the road Id been following had reached the edge of the map and now I was plugging an opening void. I was free-styling, making it up as I went along as previous direction fizzled out to nothing.

As my ponderings tumbled and clashed I drifted back into reality, afraid of the volume of unanswerable questions. For once, it seemed a step in the right direction as today, on this boat journey, I was chasing a rare spark of hope: the promise of fantastic rock climbing in a paradise-like setting. Though climbing seemed a distant memory, like vaguely remembered tales from another persons life, the thought of moving over stone stirred some kind of subconscious and uncontrollable excitement. Deep down, through and through, I was a rock climber. Id been doing it all my life from my earliest beginnings with my parents. Climbing defined me and motivated me and I leaned on it for purpose and direction, but somehow Id let it drift from my life. It hadnt seemed such a loss, at least at first

I became aware of my surroundings once more. Wed covered a lot of distance. For once my depressive headspace had been a welcome escape from the uncomfortable and worrying journey. Suddenly, as we rounded a rocky corner, the waves dropped like wed passed into a different world. The landscape took a sudden turn for the better not that it had been bad before but now there was rockiness everywhere, demanding my attention, huge lumps of towering limestone mushrooming out of the sea. For sure this was a set from a James Bond film. Short-cutting under an enormous low roof, the deafening clatter of the two-stroke petrol engine changed pitch, the sound bouncing from stalactite-strewn ceilings only metres above us. Turning again, the cliffs soared upwards to colossal heights, impossible to put a scale to. Walls and faces in all directions, striped orange and blue, with curtains of stalactites and tufas. The hair on the back of my neck was prickling, my heart racing. The climber in me was remembering; the long-lost but deep-rooted passion was coming to the surface.