One Man and a Kayak: Adrift With Half a Paddle
53:17 Share

Think you know the Brooks Ghost? Think again. Introducing the all-new, better-than-ever Ghost 16. Now with nitrogen-infused cushioning for lightweight, supreme softness that feels good every step, every street, every single day. So go ahead, take your daily joyride in the all-new nitrogen-infused Ghost 16. It'll turn your everyday miles into everyday endorphins. Let's run there. Head to brookssrunning.com to learn more.

It's 11pm on July 31, 1970, just off the northwest coast of Britain. Shrouded in cold mist, the murky, muddy waters of the Solway Firth churn and swirl. This inlet of the Irish Sea creates a triangular dent in the British coastline, right at the border of Scotland and England. Somewhere in this mouth of freezing cold water, around five miles from the coast, a small navigation buoy floats unsteadily on the tumultuous surf.

The rusting metal cylinder is just four feet wide, a tiny flash of color bouncing and spinning among the inky black waves. On top of the boy, clinging on for dear life, is a shivering young man. 24-year-old Jeff Hunter sits curled up in a ball, one arm clasping a metal hook, a frayed piece of rope tied around his waist. If he loses his grip on this tiny, slippery float, he'll be swept out to sea.

Jeff pulls the hood of his anorak tighter over his head and tucks his legs closer to his body, trying to stay warm. I wasn't sure what the temperature went down to, but as night came, it got definitely colder. So I just sat on the thing longer and longer. Eventually, as it got colder, I realized that I was going to have to spend the night on this boy. It's been seven hours since Jeff took refuge here, and there's a growing sense that help is not coming.

It leaves him facing some terrifying questions. Even if he wanted to swim and could survive the ice-cold water, what direction would he go? He strains his eyes for any sign of light from the coast, but the thick fog and moonless night make it impossible to see further than a few feet. He watches the waves breaking beneath him, squinting against the salty spray and tries to study the currents. In the morning, the tide will turn and Jeff will have a decision to make.

Keep hanging on to the buoy in the increasingly unlikely hope that someone finds him or slip back into the Solway and attempt to make it to shore. I thought, well, if I stay here for another night, I would be so exhausted. I hadn't eaten anything, so I thought, well, I need to go sooner rather than later. By then, I knew I wasn't going to get rescued, so my only hope was to swim. Ever wondered what you would do when disaster strikes? If your life depended on your next decision,

Could you make the right choice? Welcome to Real Survival Stories. These are the astonishing tales of ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations. People suddenly forced to fight for their lives. In this episode, we meet Jeff Hunter, who in the spring of 1970 begins a unique maritime adventure. The 24-year-old is seeking to become the first person to circumnavigate mainland Britain in a kayak.

Starting from his hometown of Maidstone in the southeast of England, he aims to paddle around 2,500 miles of coastline. But along the way, he'll face a multitude of dilemmas and dangers. Fierce weather, rough seas, and even run-ins with the military. But it's in the Solway Firth, battered by the swell and smothered by fog, that Geoff will have to dig deeper than he ever has before. It made me more determined that the only way I'm going to get out of this is to get off the buoy and swim.

It's only when things went very wrong that I thought I wasn't going to make it. I'm John Hopkins. From Noisa, this is Real Survival Stories. It's May the 3rd, 1970, in the town of Maidstone, Kent, in the southeast of England. Gliding along the river Medway, Jeff Hunter braces his arms and digs his double-bladed paddle into the water. Tensing his torso and twisting his hips, he steers his kayak gracefully forwards.

The vessel is six meters long and 50 centimeters wide, crafted from plywood, meticulously varnished and painted orange with the name Nimrod emblazoned on its hull. She's sleek, agile, and entirely handmade. On the banks of the river, a crowd watches on, a smiling, chattering group of friends and family, plus some local press. They wave and cheer, wishing Jeff luck as he sets off on his incredibly ambitious mission.

He's hoping to be back here in a few months, having kayaked all the way around Britain. We had a fair crowd around to see me off and the Kent messenger was there taking photos and doing a story. Then off I went from there. For the locals, this is entertaining stuff. But why is Jeff, a builder by trade, embarking on this unusual odyssey?

Growing up near England's southeast coast, he was introduced to sailing and canoeing from a young age through school and local boys clubs. But it was a kayaking keen teacher who ignited Geoff's true passion. My woodwork teacher at school, he designed and built a kayak that I was interested in. And in 1970, because I knew the kayak and saw it as a very good seaboat, I decided to build one.

I built it in my bedroom at home. Having finished it, I thought, you know, this, it's such a super kayak. I was very, very pleased with it. It deserves somewhere good to go. And I thought, well, I'll take it around Kent. I take it around Cornwall, Scotland. And then I suddenly came up with a plan that I'll do all of that. Jeff is a highly capable kayaker.

But the idea of circumnavigating Britain is a big leap. As far as anyone knows, he'd be the first to even attempt it. The coves, mudflats, estuaries, and cliff-lined coastal waters all present dangers. Under a far cry from the quiet waterways of southern England, he'll be traveling solo, exposed to sudden storms, monstrous swells, and violent riptides, all in a homemade vessel just 50 centimeters wide.

Geoff's kayak, Nimrod, is ostensibly named after a biblical character, but it was also his grandfather's nickname. So the boat's moniker lends the voyage a touch of sentimentality and heart, as does the fact that Geoff wants to do it all for a good cause. I was raising money for boys clubs. I thought, you know, doing a trip like this, I could actually raise money as I went round.

Because I'd been a member of the Kent Association of Boys Clubs for years and they'd be very good to me, I thought it would be good to raise money for them. An expedition of this scale should involve months of prep, organising land-based support and training rigorously. But Geoff decides to go a different way. Well, I thought about training and I thought, well,

The best thing is to get in the boat and go, and I can train on the way, and that's exactly what I thought, and in fact, that's what I did. And so, on a bright spring day, a square-jawed, brown-haired young Jeff sets off from Maidstone with very little sense of what's in store. He stares dead ahead as he propels Nimrod along the river. The cheers from the onlookers become more muffled and distant before they're gone completely, and all Jeff can hear...

is the gentle slosh of his paddle in the water. I was enthusiastic to start with. Then as I got past the bridge in Maidstone, then I was on my own, basically. I wondered what on earth I was doing. It's not long before the huge scale of Jeff's task becomes abundantly clear. Just two days into his voyage, and not even out of the south of England, the problems start.

In the Thames estuary, he misjudges the tides and finds himself marooned on a sandbank. Forced to abandon ship, he fires off a flare, then wades three miles back to shore in the dead of night before finally being rescued by the Coast Guard. He manages to retrieve the kayak and get back on track, but soon there's another hiccup. He discovers his spare clothes and sleeping bag are wet. Apparently Nimrod's storage compartments aren't so watertight after all. It's almost enough to make him give up.

To start with, I had trouble. I lost the boat once and then I was finding it difficult to get through the mudflats. Going across the Thames Estuary, I decided that this was a bad idea, I wasn't going to do it. I thought, well, I can't go back home and tell people that I'm not going to do it. So I thought, right, I'll give it two weeks. I thought, I'll just paddle for two weeks and see how it goes.

Should he make it through the first fortnight, Geoff plans to paddle north, up the east coast of England to Scotland. He's chosen to avoid the most dangerous waters around the north of Britain, the aptly named Cape Roth, by short-cutting inland, through Loch Ness and the Caledonian Canal. Emerging out onto the west coast, he'll round the Mull of Galloway before facing an open water crossing of the Irish Sea.

Then it's just down the entire west side of England and Wales, round the south coast, through the English Channel, and back into Kent. Easy. Covering around 20 miles a day at an average speed of 4 knots, Geoff reckons he can complete the 2,500-mile circuit in under six months. But that's if he overcomes the first two weeks. Just six days in, travelling along the east of England, Geoff discovers that it's not just tides and rough weather he'll have to contend with.

Sometimes making landfall will prove just as treacherous. Trying to get through some very rough water, getting extremely cold. I came up past a MOD, Ministry of Defence land, and I decided to get out. But at the side of the beach on the cliff face was a notice saying Ministry of Defence, no entry. So I thought, well, I'm cold and I'm wet.

And so I decided to go in. Entering a remote, private area controlled by the British armed forces may not sound like the wisest decision, but if he stays on the water, Jeff is at risk of sinking. So, fighting the breaking surf, he paddles up to the beach, hops out and drags Nimrod ashore. Looking up and down the coastline, he's met with a stark 10-mile stretch of stones, featureless, save for a lighthouse in the distance and a small shed 30 yards away.

Jeff sets off towards the outbuilding in search of assistance. When he knocks on the door, he is greeted by a bespectacled man in uniform and a look of utter disbelief. There was a hut there with lots and lots of gear in it, the electronic stuff. He was extremely surprised to see me dripping on his doorstep. So he called the guards and the guys around the Ministry of Defence. They arrested me.

Geoff has just managed to stroll in to one of the UK's most secretive military test sites. It looks like he'll be returning to Maidstone in handcuffs. But after explaining his predicament and apologising, he's allowed to go on his way. From then on, the weather improves and the days get easier. As I got further north on the east coast, the water was pretty good, not quite so rough.

So after the two weeks, I just got better. I got more proficient and I got into it very nicely. You get into a rhythm and then I got better at it. So as I got further on, I thought, yeah, I'm going to make it in this six months. With no money and little in the way of supplies, Jeff is often left humbled by the kindness of strangers.

As he continues up the east coast, fishermen and sailors take an interest in him and are quick to help with repairs. Pub landlords, sports clubs, and church groups often chip in with hot meals or a place to sleep. But chief among his allies are the coast guards who watch over the British shoreline.

Quite a lot of the time I was stopping at Coast Guard places and obviously lifeboat stations and they are so, so helpful and you get a lot of knowledge from them about the coastline ahead and a lot of them put me up for the night which is great. But not everyone is a fan. More than once Jeff is met with a scornful look from an old salt, unimpressed by his approach to the sea.

One or two of them were very much against it. They didn't like what I was doing. They just felt a single kayak on its own was dangerous. There was one, I think it was in Lowestoft. The guy told me, he said, you're wasting your time, you're wasting my time, and you're going to kill yourself. It's a stern warning. Still, Jeff continues undeterred. As he learns to use the winds and tides to his advantage, Nimrod eats up the miles.

The great sandy beaches of East Anglia and Lincolnshire soon transform into the craggy cliffs and sheltered bays of Northumberland. As spring gives way to summer, he hits the east coast of Scotland. Here the scenery gets even more dramatic. So does the story. For the second time, Geoff stumbles into an area controlled by the military.

Ignoring red flags, he rapidly paddles through a live firing range, accompanied by a soundtrack of cracking gunfire and shouts from angry army personnel. As he ventures further around Scotland, the rough waters of the North Sea constantly threaten to capsize his boat. He races past angular jet black rocks, passing so close that he could reach out and touch the purple-green patches of moss clinging to their sides.

All around him, flocks of dive-bombing seabirds plunge shrieking into the frothing waters. But in calmer moments, he peers up at crumbling castles and medieval manors perched precariously on towering cliffs. In July, having reached the highlands and his furthest point north, he heads south. The tranquility of the Caledonian Canal is a blissful contrast to the rough coastline. Jeff enjoys the respite while he can.

Because what awaits him on the West Coast will be by far the most challenging conditions yet. Literally hundreds, if not a thousand needles came down like the heavens were falling. I'm Natalia Petruzzella. From BBC Radio 4, this is Extreme. Musclemen.

When you're muscular, when you're big, you get respect. This is the story of the biggest illegal steroid operation the United States had ever seen and the lengths to which we'll go in pursuit of perfection. Extreme Musclemen. Listen wherever you get your podcasts. It's 9 a.m. on Friday, July the 31st. Jeff stands on the quayside in the quiet fishing village of Kipford in the south of Scotland. He's been here for over a week.

Heavy rain and strong winds have delayed his journey, preventing his attempt to leave. Twice I had to come back because the weather was bad. This is not a good place to keep going. So I stopped, turned back and I came back twice to Kipford. But today the forecast is due to be better. Maybe it'll be third time lucky. He looks at the undulating slate grey water beyond, the Solway Firth. Somewhere through the mist on the other side of the inlet is England.

and his destination the Cumbrian coal town of Workington. It's 16 miles south from where he currently stands and to get there he must cross open water. I didn't want to go all the way around Loose Bay because it was a long way around. Although it's a 16 mile open crossing which I hadn't done before I thought yeah I'm going to go for that. I was a little wary of it and I didn't know quite how it was going to go. In the right conditions the journey should be manageable

The issue is Nimrod itself. Turns out there's a small design flaw in Geoff's lovingly made vessel. The whole boat is plywood, but where you sit in, you've got like a skirt which goes around your body tight, called the spray deck, and that sits all the way around the cockpit and it keeps you watertight between you and the boat.

As I was paddling, because my spray deck was not so good, I tended to fill with water. The boat should stay afloat, even with the cockpit half flooded. And if he needs to, he can usually just pull into a cove or a bay and empty out. But in open water, that won't be an option. As Jeff pushes off from the small harbor and enters the estuary, he is immediately assaulted by heavy waves.

As I set off, it started to rain. I had waves that were about four or five foot high, which you have to sort of go up and down like a switchback. So as you're going into the waves, water comes across your deck, hits the spray deck, and that's when it starts to fill up. About an hour and a half in, my boat was half full of water.

It's not long before he can feel the icy water sloshing around his legs. Luckily, he's still close enough to land, and there's a small outcrop he can stop at. Heston Island. As he drags Nimrod over the pebbles, a few seals bark at him and shuffle away. He flips the boat and lets the water drain out. Jeff looks out across the misty solway. There now won't be another island between him and England, but the tide is with him. He checks his watch. 1 p.m.

In maybe four or five hours, he could be in Workington, well before nightfall. He resolves to give it a go. Jeff pushes off and resumes paddling. With Nimrod drained, she handles the swell perfectly. Light and agile, riding up and down the rolling water, he's soon making good progress, despite the foul weather. The wind got up a bit, and so the waves were getting higher as I got further into the Solwave Earth.

which means that the boat fills up faster if you've got waves that are going through and breaking over the boat. Of course, there's no way I could stop, so I just hoped I didn't fill up completely. He pulls the hood of his rain jacket over his woolen hat and keeps paddling. Geoff can now feel the added weights of the water filling the cockpit. He's moving slower and handling is becoming sluggish.

To make matters worse, the thin mist has now morphed into a dense wall of fog. I was worried right from the start. It's very difficult because with mist, and it was very misty, you can't see where you're going. You're just paddling on a compass bearing. And as you're paddling, you just wonder,

You know, is the compass okay? Am I actually going in the right spot? With no sign of land, he has to estimate his position. It's now 3 p.m. He should be about halfway, maybe seven or eight miles from land. But he's riding ever lower through the waves and can feel the water sloshing around his knees. So I was half full of water and worried how I was going to get right the way across without sinking. Jeff stops paddling.

and tries to bail out. He scoops the water as best he can, even using his woolly hat as a makeshift bucket. But it's no good. So it didn't take long before I realized I was not going to empty the boat at all. So I put my wet back on with water dripping down my face and decided there's no way I can empty this boat. I thought I'll just carry on, which is what I did. With six miles to go, the tide is still on his side.

As long as he keeps moving, he should, in theory, make it eventually. Every so often, the mist clears enough for him to glimpse the outline of Workington in the distance. The steel mills and ironworks, the distinctive smokestacks rising above the shoreline,

And as I kept paddling, every so often I saw the chimneys. That then became not just chimneys, but I could see houses and then I could see windows and the further you get there, the closer and the more details you see. And the fact that you're making progress is very reassuring and it boosts the morale. Jeff doubles his efforts, straining hard with every stroke.

The wooden paddle flexes in his hand as he steers the waterlogged kayak until, out of nowhere, a single massive wave rears up to one side of him, far larger than the rest. Jeff just has time to register it before impact. He braces, anticipating the hit, preparing to stop himself from capsizing by using his paddle.

Jeff is upside down, underwater.

Still wedged inside the kayak's cockpit, he stares up towards the churning surface of the Solway. He's being squeezed, between the boat pressing him down and the buoyancy of his life jacket pushing him up. But he manages to remain calm. He feels around for the release loop and pulls, sliding his legs out from the cockpit and swiftly exiting the kayak. Resurfacing, he treads water and wipes his eyes.

Glancing about, he quickly gathers the broken paddle ends, his seat and the spray deck, all of which have come loose. In the freezing water, with his boat in pieces and the mist closing in, Jeff's situation has gone from dangerous to life-threatening. I was very worried at that stage. It's a genuine fear of, you know, I just wondered what on earth I was going to do next because I'd lost the paddles and I was floating in the water. Crikey, what can I do next?

Jeff needs to get out of the water as fast as possible. That means getting back into the kayak, which is only possible through an elaborate maneuver. Grasping the larger half of the broken paddle, he dives under the boat and slips his legs back into the cockpit. Then, grasping the blade tight and flicking his hips, he manages to roll Nimrod upright. A deep breath, a shake of the head, and he's back. Immediately, Jeff tries to get moving.

But it's a struggle with only half a paddle. A few strokes on one side, then he switches, zigzagging into the waves. I had a full boat of water. Half a blade didn't even keep me going forward. I was slopping from side to side. And I just knew that I had to make progress or I would be drifting down into the Solway Firth and out to sea. For 20 minutes, Jeff tries desperately to make headway.

but it's no use. It's obvious he's going nowhere. He glances about, hoping to see a passing boat. The mist continues to swirl around him, occasionally revealing the distant shoreline, but nothing else. He is alone out there. Jeff seems to be completely out of options. And then he spots something. A small shape in the water a few hundred yards away. He paddles hard towards it, inching arduously through the waves. Slowly, the object takes shape.

It's a rusty old navigation buoy, bobbing in the swell. It may not be dry land, but this could be Jeff's salvation. The buoy is anchored to the seabed, so if he can attach himself to it, he'll be in far less danger of being swept out to sea. He keeps pushing forwards, but 50 yards away, he finds he can't get any closer, and it seems he's out of time. The tide is now turning in the other direction. I couldn't paddle it. It was impossible. I couldn't keep the boat straight,

I then took the painter, which is the rope around the boat. I took that off, wound it around my waist, got out of the boat and I started swimming and pulling the boat to the buoy. Jeff swims for his life, dragging Nimrod behind him, toiling against the current. It's a determination to survive, basically. With me in the water,

The water was cold, so it was very cold. So I needed to get to this buoy to stop myself from drifting off down the solway. It's only a few yards, but it takes him nearly an hour. Eventually he makes it. With his last few strokes, Jeff does a lap of the buoy, looping his rope around it. Then, with his final ounce of energy, he bellyflops across the deck of his kayak.

And when I got to the buoy, I just sort of laid on the front of my boat and thought, what do I do now? It's 4.30 p.m. After catching his breath, Jeff blows on the whistle attached to his life jacket and forlornly hollers for help. His cries are engulfed by the wind. He then tries to climb fully onto the buoy. He has to get out of the water before he freezes, but it's no easy thing.

The metal navigation marker is a six-foot high cylinder, shaped like an upturned bucket, which narrows to just a few feet wide at its head. Its rusty sides are slick with peeling red paint, seaweed, and oily slime. The only thing to grab onto is a single metal hook protruding from the top. After several attempts, Jeff manages to loop the painter up over the hook and haul Nimrod half out of the water. Then, using the boat as a ladder,

He clambers up onto the buoy. Once on top, he slips one leg through the hook to steady himself. Suddenly, things don't seem quite so helpless. I managed to sit on it and I thought, right, I'm out of the water, which is good. I've still got the boat because the painter was still around my waist. And I thought, right, a couple of hours and I should be getting rescued. Geoff's confidence isn't unfounded.

At every stop during his three-month voyage, he has made a point of updating port authorities with his plans. They should notice if he doesn't check in and send out help. I'd been in touch with the Coast Guard and the lifeboat people, so I thought after work, I thought, well, five, six hours and they should come and look for me. Hour after hour drags by, with Jeff gripping to the top of the buoy.

To pass the time, he tries to raise Nimrod further out of the water, hoping to drain her out, but she's too heavy, can't even reach his emergency supplies. Instead, he ties the kayak off to the hook and waits for the cavalry to arrive. But by 7:00 PM, as the sun sets over the Solway, there is still no sign of the Coast Guard. The mist thickens, the wind picks up, and the waves get larger.

The sea was running fairly heavy now, so you got a lot of tide that was up and down with four or five foot waves. That took my boat one way and then the boy was swinging in the other way. As the sea moves, the rope gets dragged back and forth over the rusty steel of the boy, straining, scraping and fraying with every wave. Then the unthinkable happens. The rope snaps.

and Nimrod breaks free. Looking at my boat setting off away from me, I thought, if I get off this buoy and start swimming for my boat, A, I probably wouldn't make it, and what am I going to do? The boat then disappeared off. Of course, in the boat, I had flares, I had food, everything, all my equipment was in the boat. It was just something I had to watch and couldn't do anything about at all.

his beloved hand-built vessel named after his grandfather floats away tossed on angry waves it disappears slowly into the mist it's 10 pm and the writing is on the wall for jeff no one is coming for him today after six grueling hours clinging onto the boy he must now face the night under a moonless sky the only light comes from the occasional flash of the shoreline through the fog

Staring at the town, five miles away, Jeff clings on tight to the metal hook. He ties the broken end of the rope back around his waist, a safety line should he roll off. The hours drag by. The boy's spinning and lurching in the swell causes him to feel horribly seasick, but that's the least of his worries. As night creeps on, he's buried in fog and the temperature nosedives. Dressed in only a short-legged wetsuit and raincoat, he's soon shivering.

As night came, it got definitely colder. I found that I wasn't able to do anything really. I thought I could sing, but then I didn't bother. After a while, you get used to the fact that that is the temperature and it's not going to get any better. You just huddle down and hang on and wait for the dawn. In the dead of night, Jeff comes to a conclusion. When day breaks, he'll have to take things into his own hands.

That was the thing that was driving me forward. I wanted the dawn to come, knowing that I will then have to go and swim for it. If I didn't swim, I wouldn't last another day. It's just after 5 a.m. on August the 1st. Dawn comes, but hardly improves the outlook. There's still a chill in the air. The water is still rough, and the Cumbrian shoreline is still masked by a thick blanket of fog. But Jeff cannot delay any longer.

So, seven o'clock the tide I knew was going to turn and start coming into the Solway. If I left it any later, I ran the risk of the tide taking me out to sea. And I knew by then, I knew I wasn't going to get rescued. So, my only hope was to swim. But which way does he swim? After a night of spinning in the Solway, surrounded by swirling mist, he isn't even sure which direction he's facing.

Jeff studies the water closely. By the time 7am comes around, he makes his best guess. He'll try to follow the swell landwards towards Workington. He has now been on the buoy for 14 hours. He hasn't eaten or slept. He has about six hours to swim five miles before the tide turns. In choppy, freezing water and wearing a cumbersome life jacket, there is no time to lose. The cold hits him like a hammer, knocking the breath out of him.

Unable to climb back onto the buoy, it's now do or die, sink or swim. I just thought, yeah, I've got no alternative. I've just got to keep going. And that's the way I thought. And I just kept swimming. As I was swimming, I was sort of on top of this life jacket and it was just slowing me down.

So I thought, right, I'm not having that. So I took that off, put it on my back so I could swim front crawl, which is easier for me, or breaststroke. Mixing up his strokes, Jeff splashes on. Occasionally through the mist, he glimpses land, something to keep him going. He stops for a moment to catch his breath. The cold drains the energy from his legs. Lethargy is creeping in. Hypothermia is taking hold. He just has to swim on.

Another hour passes, then another. Jeff can now clearly see the shoreline, the docks of Workington, and even some boats around the harbor. He's got maybe another mile or two to go, but every kick is getting slower, every stroke less effective. Then he hears the chug of a diesel engine somewhere behind him. Turning, he sees a trawler motoring towards Workington. He blows his whistle and frantically waves his arms, but the boat doesn't come his way.

When it turned away, I thought, well, no. Obviously, he never even saw me in the water. So I just thought, no, it's not going to happen. I just kept on doing what I was doing on my swim. Jeff is within half a mile of the shore now. He can see people moving about on the quayside of Workington. He tries calling out. Maybe another boat will pass or the people on shore will hear him. But all that comes back is the sound of the waves and the wind. Then, out of the mist...

He hears voices, someone shouting at him to hold on. His cries have been heard. It was a dinghy with four people in the dinghy already, so it was full up. But they hauled me over the stern of their boat into their boat. So as soon as I got in the boat, I tried to tell them how pleased I was. But because I'd been in the water and, you know, I spoke slurred as if I was drunk.

I couldn't speak because I was just shivering constantly and I couldn't stop shivering. The sailors quickly bundle Jeff up in blankets and head for the shore. He's clearly hypothermic. He needs urgent medical attention. An hour later, Jeff's rescuers are helping him stagger into the emergency department at Maryport Hospital. Even when they got me to the hospital, I was shivering. I only stopped when they put me in a hot water bath.

And then gave me a drink with a drop of whiskey in it, which was nice. And yeah, the panic is over. Resting in a warm hospital bed, Jeff can finally breathe easy. His suffering in the Solway is over. It seems he made the right decision to swim for shore. He judged the tides correctly, but it was a close run thing. A bit longer in the frigid waters of the Irish Sea, who knows? It turns out there was a search effort.

Several boats and helicopters were dispatched to find Jeff, but it seems they were looking for him in the wrong place. Following reports of flares being fired elsewhere up the coast, most likely they were hunters looking for wildfowl. So if Jeff hadn't decided to rescue himself, he'd likely never have been found. Once I made it, it was days later that I actually thought about what I'd been through and how it all went. I just felt

very, very lucky of how things had gone. You know, I'd found this boy and then managed to get on top of it and all sorts of, you think of the positives and think, I'm so pleased to have got through that. When word gets out about Jeff's lucky escape and the loss of his kayak, it sparks a flurry of press attention. He's even interviewed by the BBC. The publicity helps draw more supporters to his charitable causes.

And just a few weeks later, he's back on the water, paddling Nimrod II along the east coast of England, this time with a bit more organized support. Finally, on Thursday, November 5, 1970, a weather-beaten Jeff coasts back down the River Medway and into Maidstone. His journey is complete.

I was very, very pleased to get back. The weather was not very good when I was coming back into the Medway Estuary and up into Maidstone, but so, so relieved. And I just felt that I'd managed to do something pretty good. I was elated, elated, yes. Jeff's was the first ever recorded attempt to circumnavigate Britain by kayak.

And he did it solo in his own hand-built vessel, overcoming a near-death experience along the way. Incredibly, he is eventually reunited with Nimrod I after it washes up on the Scottish coast. He still has it to this day. It's a memento of his epic voyage and a powerful reminder that when the time came, he had what it took to survive. I think it was just an extreme hope and willingness to

to keep going. I think I have a natural ability to survive. I suppose people that know me would just say that I'm a stubborn old chap. And stubbornness is a big part of it. But wanting to survive is definitely something that is born in me. Definitely. In the next episode, we meet polar explorer Peter Bland.

In January 2001, he and his friend Jay are attempting an unsupported crossing of the infamous Antarctic Peninsula, a place known as the Great White Chaos. But when Peter is blindsided by an avalanche, he'll be left brutally wounded and incapacitated, teetering on the very edge of life, the very edge of the world. It'll be down to Jay to do his best to keep his mate alive. That's next time on Real Survival Stories. Listen today without waiting a week by subscribing to Noisa Plus.

Go to noisa.com forward slash subscriptions to find out more.