Quest for Adventure Read online

  The crew of the modern-day Kon-Tiki raised the mainsail, with its stylised picture of the head of Tiki, and waited for the wind to drive them ever westward. At first hesitantly, and then with a steadily growing strength, the South-East Trades drove them remorselessly into the empty ocean of the South Pacific. That night they saw the lights of two steamers; they signalled with their kerosene lamps but the lookouts were not alert, not expecting to see anyone, let alone a pre-Inca raft heading out into the Pacific. These were to be the last two boats they saw all the way across. They were now totally committed. There was no way they could sail against the wind; all they could do was to sail before it, relying on the constant direction of the South-East Trades to take them to their 6,500-kilometre-distant destination.

  That night the seas rose steadily, piled high by the growing wind; great rollers of dark water swept down, so much faster than the raft, curling above the stern, breaking over it and smashing down on to the deck. The two helmsmen, always on duty on the great six-metre steering oar, were learning from scratch how to control this prehistoric boat. They quickly discovered that the best way was to lash a cross-piece on to the handle of the oar so that they had a kind of lever to turn against the immense force of the seas but, as the waves increased, they found that they had to lash the steering oar loosely in position to prevent it being torn from their hands. When the great combers came rolling in from behind, the helmsmen had to leap up and hang on to a bamboo pole that projected from the cabin roof, while the waves surged across the deck beneath their dangling feet, before running away between the numerous gaps and chinks between the logs. Already, quite a few of the prophecies of doom had been laid low. The raft rose and fell easily between the crests and troughs of the waves with the buoyancy of a cork. They could not be swamped because the water simply flowed away through the logs and over the side. The worst that could happen was that the cabin could be swept by a breaker, particularly if they let themselves get abeam to the waves, but provided they kept the stern into the sea, the waves rarely reached the cabin before dissipating.

  After three days of battering by heavy seas the wind eased and the waves became more even. The team were able to settle into a steady rhythm of living, though there were still some serious worries. Would the balsa wood become waterlogged? After a week, Heyerdahl surreptitiously broke off a small chunk of wood and dropped it into the sea; it sank like a stone. The prophets of doom might have been right after all. Then he dug his knife into the wood and found that only the outer couple of centimetres had absorbed water and most of the log was still dry. With luck, the sap further in would act as an impregnation and check the absorption.

  Another cause for concern was that the ropes holding the raft together might be worn through by abrasion. There was a constant movement and flexing as the raft responded to the contours of the waves, shifting, creaking, water gurgling between the logs. Lying in the little shelter at night it was easy to imagine the constant friction and stress on the cordage, and the consequences if it started to come apart. Each day they examined the ropes, but there was no sign of wear; the balsa wood was so soft that the ropes had cut deep into it, getting their own protection and, at the same time, lubrication from the salt water in the smooth channels they had worn.

  Day followed day, with blue skies, the constant wind of the South-East Trades and a blazing sun that dropped over the western horizon each evening, just as it always had done, just as it had led the original Kon-Tiki and his fleet of rafts to their unknown destination.

  The modern-day sailors were already beginning to tire of their processed foods, but the sea provided plenty of alternatives. Travelling only just above the sea’s surface, and little faster than the current, weed and barnacles on the undersurface of the raft gave small fish an attractive shelter and it soon became a moving home for fish as well as humans. The variety was incredible. It ranged from clouds of tiny, multishaped and multicoloured plankton to the huge whales which harvested the plankton. They were accompanied by shoals of sardine, dorado (dolphin), schools of porpoise, flying fish, which provided breakfast each morning, and a huge variety they had never seen or heard of before. Some of them were new discoveries. One night, Torstein Raaby, who was sleeping by the entrance of the shelter, was awakened when the lamp by his head was knocked over. He thought it was a flying fish, grabbed for it in the dark and felt something long and slimy that wriggled out of his hand and landed on Herman Watzinger’s sleeping bag. Eventually, when they managed to light the lamp, they saw an extraordinary snake-like fish with dull black eyes, long snout and a fierce jaw, filled with long sharp teeth. Watzinger grabbed it and under his grip a large-eyed white fish was suddenly thrown up from the stomach out of the mouth of the snake-like fish; this was quickly followed by another. These were obviously deep-water fish and, later on, the team were to discover that they were the first people ever to see alive the Gempylus, a deep-water mackerel, though its skeleton had been seen in the Galapagos Islands and on the coast of South America.

  A few days later Knut Haugland saw the biggest and ugliest shark he had ever seen. At least fifteen metres long, as it swam round the raft and then started ducking underneath it, its head was near the surface on one side and the tail lashing the water on the other. The head was broad and flat, like a frog, with two small eyes at the side and jaws over a metre wide. If angered, it could undoubtedly have smashed the raft to pieces with its massive tail. It was the very rare whale shark, the biggest of the species, and it circled the craft for over an hour, the crew watching it, apprehensive yet fascinated. At last, as it cruised under the raft and came up the other side, just beneath Erik Hesselberg, he drove a harpoon into its head with all the force he could muster. The shark erupted into fury, lashed the water with its huge tail and plunged into the depths. The strong rope attached to the harpoon parted as if it were cotton and a few moments later a broken-off harpoon shaft came to the surface.

  They devised games to lure sharks on to hooks baited with dorado, or they would simply allow the shark to bite through the dorado, which it could do with a single snap of its powerful jaws; as it turned to swim away one of the crew would seize the shark by the tail and heave the tail up on to the stern logs, where it would thrash around until it either managed to heave itself off and regain its freedom, or until they managed to drop a noose over the tail and so caught it until it thrashed away its life.

  And the days slipped by with the routine of daily sun shots, the recording of wind speed and weather, the daily radio call, the round of fishing and the turns at the steering. Heyerdahl, as skipper, kept a gentle, unobtrusive but positive control over his little crew, his natural air of authority leavened by a rich sense of humour. They had agreed to various rules which they all enforced: that the helmsmen should always be attached by a rope to the raft and that no one should swim away from the raft for fear of being swept away – they could not possibly sail back against the wind to pick anyone up. Losing someone overboard was a nightmare risk of the voyage and it happened on 21 July, when they were getting close to the Pacific Islands. A gust of wind caught one of the sleeping bags which were hanging out to air; Watzinger dived to catch it, toppled on the edge of the deck, was unable to regain his balance and flopped into the sea:

  ‘We heard a faint cry for help amid the noise of the waves, and saw Herman’s head and waving arm, as well as some vague green object twirling about in the water near him. He was struggling for life to get back to the raft through the high seas which had lifted him out from the port side. Torstein, who was at the steering oar aft, and I myself, up in the bows, were the first to perceive him, and we went cold with fear. We bellowed “man overboard!” at the pitch of our lungs as we rushed to the nearest life-saving gear. The others had not heard Herman’s cry at all because of the noise of the sea, but in a trice there was life and bustle on deck. Herman was an excellent swimmer, and though we realised that his life was at stake, we had a fair hope that he would manage to crawl back to the edge of the raft be
fore it was too late.

  ‘Torstein, who was nearest, seized the bamboo drum round which was the line we used for the lifeboat, for this was within his reach. It was the only time on the whole voyage that this line got caught up. The whole thing happened in a few seconds. Herman was now level with the stern of the raft, but a few yards away, and his last hope was to crawl to the blade of the steering oar and hang on to it. As he missed the end of the logs, he reached out for the oar-blade, but it slipped away from him. And there he lay, just where experience had shown we could get nothing back. While Bengt and I launched the dinghy, Knut and Erik threw out the lifebelt. Carrying a long line, it hung ready for use on the corner of the cabin roof but today the wind was so strong that when they threw the lifebelt it was simply blown back to the raft. After a few unsuccessful throws Herman was already far astern of the steering oar, swimming desperately to keep up with the raft, while the distance increased with each gust of wind. He realised that henceforth the gap would simply go on increasing, but he set a faint hope on the dinghy, which we had now got into the water. Without the line which acted as a brake, it would perhaps have been practicable to drive the rubber raft to meet the swimming man, but whether the rubber raft would ever get back to the Kon-Tiki was another matter. Nevertheless, three men in a rubber dinghy had some chance, one man in the sea had none.

  ‘Then we suddenly saw Knut take off and plunge head first into the sea. He had the lifebelt in one hand and was heaving himself along. Every time Herman’s head appeared on a wave-back Knut was gone, and every time Knut came up Herman was not there. But then we saw both heads at once; they had swum to meet each other and both were hanging on to the lifebelt. Knut waved his arm, and as the rubber raft had meanwhile been hauled on board, all four of us took hold of the line of the lifebelt and hauled for dear life, with our eyes fixed on the great dark object which was visible just behind the two men. This mysterious beast in the water was pushing a big greenish-black triangle up above the wave-crests; it almost gave Knut a shock when he was on his way over to Herman. Only Herman knew then that the triangle did not belong to a shark or any other sea monster. It was an inflated corner of Torstein’s watertight sleeping bag. But the sleeping bag did not remain floating for long after we had hauled the two men safe and sound on board. Whatever dragged the sleeping bag down into the depths had just missed a better prey.’

  It had been a narrow escape and everyone was badly shaken, but there was no time to reflect before another storm was upon them. They were hammered by winds and sea for another five days. At the end of it the steering oar was broken, the sail rent and the centreboards below the raft hung loose and almost useless, the ropes that held them tight having parted or lost their tension with the violent motion of the waves. The gaps between the logs were now very much wider and everyone had to be on their guard to avoid catching an ankle in between the constantly flexing logs; but the raft was still sound, the cargo dry and the crew were fit. On 17 July they had their first visit by land-based birds, two large boobies; the flying fish, also, were of a different species, similar to those that Heyerdahl could remember catching off the coast of Fatu Hiva which was now only 500 kilometres to the north.

  They began to worry about their landing – probably the most dangerous part of the entire voyage. Heyerdahl had vivid memories of the huge surf smashing against the jagged cliffs of Fatu Hiva. The coral atolls to the south could be even more dangerous, with their widespread reefs like hidden minefields lying just below the surface. If caught on one of these, Kon-Tiki and its crew could be smashed to pieces by the breaking surf while still far out from any island haven. Swept before the wind, their ability to manoeuvre was slight; it was unlikely that they would be able to creep round an island or reef into its sheltered lee.

  For a couple of days they headed towards Fatu Hiva, but then a north-easterly wind blew them down towards the Tuamotu atolls. They were now accompanied by the constant scream of sea birds, as they wheeled and dived upon the raft. Land was undoubtedly close by. At last, at dawn on 30 July, they sighted a low silhouette, little more than a faint shadow against the red-gold blaze of the rising sun, on the far horizon. They had passed it during the night; there was no chance of backtracking against the wind; they would have to wait until they were swept on to another island. They were subdued rather than jubilant:

  ‘No extravagant outbursts were to be heard on board. After the sail had been trimmed and the oar laid over, we all formed a silent group at the mast head or stood on deck staring towards the land which had suddenly cropped up, out in the middle of the endless all-dominating sea. At last we had visible proof that we had been moving in all these months; we had not just been lying tumbling about in the centre of the same eternal circular horizon. To us it seemed as if the island were mobile and had suddenly entered the circle of blue empty sea in the centre of which we had our permanent abode, as if the island were drifting slowly across our own domain, heading for the eastern horizon. We were all filled with a warm quiet satisfaction at having actually reached Polynesia, mingled with a faint momentary disappointment at having to submit helplessly to seeing the island lie there like a mirage while we continued our eternal drift across the sea westward.’

  Later that day they sighted another island; having seen early enough this time they were able to head for it. Soon they could pick out the dense palm trees that grew down to the shore, could see the still waters of the lagoon inside the reef, but between them and the end of their voyage was the reef itself, a confusion of white, thundering spray that occasionally cleared to show the jagged brown teeth of coral. If thrown on to this their chances of survival would be slight. Edging in as close as they dared, they could actually see the separate trunks of the trees, the texture of the sand on the beach, so very close to them and yet still unattainable. As they coasted down, parallel to the reef, there was a mixed feeling of holiday excitement tinged with underlying fear. Erik Hesselberg, a big Peruvian sunhat on his head, played the guitar and sang sentimental South Sea songs; Bengt Danielsson prepared an elaborate dinner, which they ate sitting on the bamboo deck under the cloudless blue sky. Somehow, all this emphasised the incongruous menace of the tumbling, crushing surf between them and safety.

  It was beginning to get dark and they were very nearly at the end of the island when they spotted some figures among the trees; two canoes came streaking out through the surf and in a few minutes, for the first time in three months, they spoke to strangers – the descendants, perhaps, of Kon-Tiki and the original voyagers. With a mixture of sign language and the few words of Polynesian that Heyerdahl could remember, they indicated that they wanted to find a way in through the reef. The islanders replied by saying ‘Brrrrrr’, indicating that the white men should switch on their engine. They could not conceive that there was none and Heyerdahl had to make them feel underneath the stern to prove that this was the case.

  Then they joined in trying to paddle the raft in towards land. Two more canoes came out but, as dusk fell, an offshore easterly built up, slowly pushing them away from the reef. It was now pitch dark; they gathered from the islanders that there were only the four sea-going canoes on the island, although there were plenty of men on shore who could help paddle them in, if only they could get out to the raft. Knut Haugland volunteered to take the rubber dinghy in to collect some more helpers and disappeared into the dark.

  But the wind steadily increased in strength as they were blown out from the shelter of the island and they began to wonder if Haugland would ever manage to return. They paddled desperately, but were growing increasingly exhausted. At last, out of the dark came a shout. He had managed to return with some of the islanders, but now it was too late; quite obviously, they would never get to the island. The Polynesians leapt back into their canoes and paddled home into the dark toward the invisible island. It hardly seemed to matter any more, so glad were the crew to be reunited. They had become such a tight-knit little group of over the months, that this seemed the most important thing
of all. After all, there were more islands for them to land on.

  They sailed on, drifting ever closer to the dangerous reefs of the Takumé and Raroia atolls; then the wind veered to the north, bringing a hope of creeping round to the south of them. They were tense, worrying days, the memory of the breakers smashing down on to the coral reef all too vivid. Now so close to success, they could very easily lose their lives within easy sight of their goal. On the morning of 7 August they sighted some low-lying coral islands in their path; they were being swept inexorably towards them and soon they could see the white chain of breaking surf that barred their way to safety.

  The previous days had been spent in preparation for their seemingly inevitable shipwreck, as they packed all their documents and films into waterproof bags, securing them in the cabin which they lashed with a tarpaulin. Also, with great difficulty, they pulled up the centreboards, now encrusted with seaweed and barnacles, through the gaps between the logs to reduce their draft to the minimum. As they worked they drifted ever closer to the crushing breakers. Heyerdahl kept the log almost to the last moment:

  ‘9.45: The wind is taking us straight towards the last island but one, we can see behind the reef. We can now see the whole coral reef clearly; here it is built up like a white and red speckled wall which just sticks up out of the water in a belt in front of all the islands. All along the reef white foaming surf is flung up towards the sky. Bengt is just serving up a good hot meal, the last before the great action! It is a wreck lying in there on the reef. We are so close now that we can see right across the shining lagoon behind the reef, and see the outlines of other islands on the other side of the lagoon.