My taxi into Lima was a modern, air-conditioned car. In stark contrast to the spluttering tuk-tuks of Iquitos in terms of comfort, but also, far less fun. The city sprung out of the ground atop a rugged conglomerate spine that ran adjacent to the Pacific shoreline. Beneath stretched a yellow beach for as far as the thick sea harr would allow me to see. I could just make out the black silhouettes of surfers being jostled about in the swell. Being born in Scotland, an island nation, situated on the biggest island of the British Isles, I naturally love being on a coastline, so spent the ride with my forehead pressed against the window, scanning for wildlife and islands and appreciating waves. After spending so long inland, surrounded by tall trees in the hot still air, just seeing this vast expanse of blue felt liberating. I couldn’t wait to get out of the taxi and feel the salty breeze against my skin.
The last time I had seen the Pacific Ocean was after I’d spent nearly a year in Nebraska, USA living with my Uncle Ben and Aunty Ann. The midwestern state is about as far as you can get from the ocean and designates the majority of its land production for corn and cattle grazing.
I was 21 at the time and working in a grain elevator which is basically a facility for storing and drying grain. Trucks would arrive and tip their loads into a pit in the ground and then conveyor belts would transport the grain into storage tanks above ground to allow for evaporation. Once ready for transport, we’d load the dry grain into freight trains, that could reach lengths of up to 5 kilometers long made up of hundreds of cars.
In 2010 being a grain elevator worker in America had a higher mortality rate than the US military which is even more surprising considering that this was at the peak of the war in Afghanistan. Out of roughly 30 000 workers, there were 26 fatalities due to grain engulfment alone. When you take office staff away from the total figure of workers and add deaths due to machinery, crushing and working at height factors, you come to a startling estimate. More than 1 in every 1000 grain elevator workers died in 2010. The US military had roughly 1 580 000 personnel that same year of which 498 sadly lost their lives giving an estimate of 1 death for every 3000 persons.
The man who’s shift I took over from at Dalton Grain Elevator was as ‘country’ as is gets. Stick thin but strong like a piece of fencing wire, wearing dusty blue Levi's jeans and a dirty hat atop a bald head. Incredibly polite yet quick to give you a blocking if you put a foot wrong. On my first day on shift he expected me to know what the abbreviation MT meant in relation to one of the grain tanks. It was his spelling for empty. What I remember most clearly was his chair, situated with its back to the wall, which looked like it hadn’t been moved for over a decade. It wasn’t so much his chair but more the brown arc around his chair that stood out on the grey concrete floor. A perfect semi-circle, from wall to wall. After witnessing him stick a brown wad under his bottom lip, I realized what this ground sign was from. It was a sublime piece of chewing-tobacco-spit artwork, and I commended him for his efforts.
I remember one afternoon having lunch with my uncle at a roadside diner whilst an elderly woman was walking around the tables asking the men if they were veterans. Every one of them answered yes. When she got to me, I was somewhat embarrassed and sheepishly said no to which she said, “Why not?”. Looking back, I should have puffed out my chest and said: “No, I’m a grain elevator worker!” There are many dangerous civilian jobs done by unsung heroes. These guys and girls keep our countries running. But, for me, the only glamorous option I could see for myself was to join the Royal Marine Commandos back in the UK. That old lady’s question lodged itself in my head and strengthened my resolve to give basic training a shot.
After some months in Nebraska, my friend Jake and his girlfriend (now wife and mother to their two children) came through town during their East coast to Westcoast road trip. They were heading from Jakes homeland in New Hampshire to San Francisco where Laura intended to stay with friends. Unable to say no to adventure, it didn’t take long for Jake to persuade me to tag along and before I knew it, I was squashed into the back seat of his Toyota Tercel driving through Yellow Stone park and onwards.
There are so many river stories from this trip alone that they could fill a number of chapters. I'll include the most memorable because they are all river related. My first experience in a white water kayak was at a place called Skalkaho Pass in Montana. Jake was a great white water kayaker and had brought his boat along for the ride. We picked out a mediocre looking rapid for me to learn on and I eagerly slid in. In my opinion, I navigated the rapid expertly although Jake's perception of events may differ. After the hard part was done, I turned to appreciate my hard work and hit a rock side on that sent me over. The next few seconds were defined by inexperience and weakness. Firstly, I sucessfully attempted to role with such enthusiasm that I did a complete 360 and ended up head first in the drink again. The next attempt wasn't successful and before I knew it I was gasping for breath but feeling only ice cold water entering my mouth. For those who do not know, a kayak is kept buoyant when upside down due an elastic skirt that attaches to the paddler and the kayak, stopping water from entering the hole where the kayaker sits. As my head bounced along the rocks at the bottom of the river I tried to push myself out of the kayak without pulling the skirt off. The water was so cold that I only had about 30 seconds of real fight in me. I then felt my shoulder being wrenched, accompanied by an internal ripping noise that I assume was a muscle tear. I took one last gasp of ice cold water into my lungs and then, much like the shooting incident, lost my memory, When I came to, I was standing in the shallows, watching a half naked Jake go after the kayak before it was swept away for good. He'd originally stripped off to rescue me and when he came back with the kayak he was close to spent by the cold water too. We spent the the next 2 hours in the trusty Tercel with the heating on full blast and when we did eventually carry on driving up the road we reached the snow line within 5 minutes.
Later in the trip we ended up saving a bikini babe from drowning in an Oregon river. She and her friends had persuaded us that the river was safe to float down so we all jumped in for a pleasant float back to our camp. After the first meander, she was quite literally panic drowning in what I'd say was probably grade 2. But, floating down in just a swimming costume without a floatation device in a voluminous river quickly took it's toll. After a joint effort of improvised lifeguard tows against the flow, our feet knocking and sliding against submerged boulders, we managed to haul her to the side spluttering and crying. Her friend was picked up, almost dead, by a fisherman down river. That night ended with me feeling the only ever punch that has knocked me clean out. A cheap shot, thrown through the driver side window of the Tercel as I was sitting down. I won't go into details as to why I may have deserved it but regardless, I continued the rest of the trip west with a black eye.
Laura tolerated me well throughout the trip and her patience should be noted because Jake and I’s actions gave her serious cause for concern. We're a bit of a nightmare together. One evening Jake and I sat on the banks of a charging river in Idaho and polished off a bottle of whisky. We lost track of time and Laura came looking for us. She called down to us from above and Jake stood up to reply. But in his wobbly state, fell backwards into the river. He was perhaps an arm’s length away from being swept away into the darkness, but managed to grab onto a rock and recover himself.
Anyway, after about 3 weeks of driving, we made it to the Pacific Ocean. We topped a horizon, much like many others, only this time, as a complete surprise the ocean appeared. A vast and untamed expanse that I just suddenly realized I had dearly missed. It was the ending point of every river and a barrier for the little Toyota Tercel. Seeing it was like a release of pressure for me. It had felt like the further I was inland, the more the weight of the land pushed against me and now that it was before me, I knew I needed to make sure it was a big part of my future.
In Nebraska, the land is so flat that the skies are like an ocean, vast and unbroken by the land. But in the Amazon, everything feels tighter around you. The trees and the heat can cause claustrophobia. Feeling that ocean breeze on my skin in Lima, instantly sent my mind back to that same release I’d had in North America. That love of the ocean helped me choose to be an LC (Landing Craftsman) in the marines. Maybe that’s why I’ve found my calling in travelling down rivers from their highest sources too. They always lead to the ocean...
I had two great days in Lima, enjoying the hustle and bustle. I stood on a traffic island in the middle of a highway and just watched traffic. I ate a burger in an Irish bar. I ignored everyone and then had a few pints and spoke with everyone. On the second day I met with Michael Sharkey, a former Royal Marine Chaplain living in Lima, that Yan and Joe Plumb both knew (small world) and recommended I visit with. We met for lunch and Michael recommended Tilapia Ceviche which we ate on a veranda, overlooking the Pacific coast. He was keen to hear my take on the attack. That kind of story will excite any man, especially a Royal Marine, but I could tell he was more deeply invested. Whether your religious or not, in the military, a chaplain’s office is a safe space where a soldier can unload some of her/his darker thoughts. PTSD is no joke, and Chaplains are trained to identify it and provide support. Michael and I both wanted to meet because the coincidence of two Royal Marines being in the same city halfway across the world was reason enough. But I think he also just wanted to have a chat with me and make sure I was ok, which I was at the time. In fact, 7 days on from the attack, I was still benefitting from the most potent adrenaline boost of my life. I felt incredibly upbeat, full of motivation and happiness for being alive. Everything was that little bit more beautiful. I was in pain and concerned that my right arm might be disabled for ever, but my mental state at that time was as good as it’s ever been.
After two days I boarded a plane to the US where I would transfer onto another for Edinburgh. I answered the questions of a stern US customs officer and then walked through the gate believing it to be done. As I walked away, I heard him shout “Mr. Bathgate! Please come with me." “Here we go.” I thought, unsure how much intelligence the US was privy to in regard to shootings in South America. I was told to sit in an office for about 20 minutes and then an officer entered the room and bluntly told me to go, which I did without hesitation.
One hour later I was on a plane bound for Edinburgh, Scotland.
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