The Flying Dutchman (Hardwear Sessions)

By Neil Gresham

Lundy island lies off the north coast of Devon and is regarded as one of the last truly unspoilt areas of the English countryside. In September 2006 I joined a group of top British climbers on a week's expedition to explore the island. Most of the team favoured traditional methods, using ropes and safety equipment to pioneer new routes, but I was keen to experiment with a new climbing style known as 'Deep Water Soloing' where ropes are discarded and the climber simply goes solo above the ocean.

The climb I wanted to attempt goes up the side of a spectacular arch and is called 'the Flying Dutchman' 5.12d. My pal, Tim Emmett who had tried to climb it with ropes last year had commented that at high tide, it would be possible as a Deep Water Solo. As soon as I heard this idea I was hooked. I had waited patiently for calm weather and high tides, and the perfect day came, three days before the end of the trip. The sea was a little choppy but I knew this was my chance. With my heart racing, I threw out my abseil rope. The cliff was so steep that I had to swing in and out to prevent me from becoming stranded in space above the sea. When I was low enough, I swung in, latched the rock, took a deep breath and disconnected myself from the abseil rope. This was it now, the only option was to climb out or receive a ducking.

As I started the first moves, a wave came crashing in and soaked my right foot. Bad start, but I wiped my shoe on my calf and tried to ignore it. The first part of the route involved a mean overhanging jam crack followed by some technical moves around a small overhang at 30feet. I reached round and pulled over onto the wall above, but the next holds felt too small. I raced to work out a sequence and grimaced as my fingertips bit into the small crystals as I pulled through. At 40feet, the exit crack beckoned, but how should I reach it? Surely I'm too far to the right? If only I had more time to think about this. But with my arms fading, I had no choice but to lunge for it. Before I knew it I was spinning off into the air and the cold rush of the Atlantic stole my breath. I managed to scramble out after being buffeted around a little, and the realisation that I was ok provided a fair consolation prize.

The next evening I was back. Tomorrow we would be leaving at midday so it was now or never. The sea was a little calmer and I felt way more confident. Yesterday's plunge had broken the psychological barrier and this time I was looking forward to the difficulty rather than dreading it. I abseiled in and the first half of the climb passed in a flash. It was all going too well as I eye-balled the exit crack. Then in a cruel twist of fate, I made a wrong move and was forced to lunge leftwards for the last hold. I hit it this time, but both feet slipped from the wall and all my weight came on to one arm. I gave everything to hold the swing but it wasn't enough. I went crashing into the sea for the final time.

That night, back at the campsite I was inconsolable. It had been a great week on the island, but I would be going home without the Dutchman and I was trying hard not to let it taint the experience. I just had to let it go, and yet a crazy plan was still lurking in the back of my head. There was still a chance if I caught the early morning high tide that I could steal the climb in the last hour and dash off to catch the ferry. I would always wonder 'what if', if I didn't at least try. The next morning dawned clear, though with a slight dampness in the air. I downed some coffee and charged off to the cliff top. My body and mind felt completely drained from the previous two days of effort. Surely I was setting myself up for a final downfall? Somehow I didn't care any more, and I just needed get this over with. As I abseiled down, I realised that the rock was damp with condensation. It felt like a sick joke. I might as well just abseil straight into the sea! But a strange moment of calm followed and I decided to give it my best shot. The first crack passed, the overhang, the wall and now the exit crack. I can't allow the significance of my next few moves to register so I disengage my brain and just climb. At the point where I should have moved left yesterday, I move left, reach out...and this time it's mine. My consciousness comes flooding back and I shake my head in disbelief as I pull out of the shadows into the morning sun. Far down below me, a seal lets out a gentle bark as if to say, 'what was all the fuss about?' Who knows or cares now. I've got a ferry to catch.