From time to time, I suppose most of us dream about doing something different. The city dweller wants to live in the country and vice versa, while those who have a safe, comfortable life must surely have occasional dreams about putting it all on the line for the sake of a bit of adventure? Dreams are part of the human condition and keep many of us going when life gets tasteless.
I have been incredibly fortunate in having enjoyed a life full of incident and interest. I was brought up in the bush which gave me a chance to wander alone and dream about being a hunter, adventurer or explorer when I grew up. I married young and 'enjoyed' (we did too) the adventure of bringing up 3 small children in 1960s England on a pittance. Then I returned to Africa and the Zimbabwean war came along so that too provided spice to life. (Have you read my book NEVER QUITE A SOLDIER?) It was when the war ended that I found myself needing an outlet for that somewhat masochistically adventurous streak in my soul.
Immediately after the bush war, we were fighting again in Bulawayo, but that eventually died down, I left my beloved Support Unit and became an ordinary copper again in Marondera. To be honest, I was bored to tears and when I left the police force, the only outlet I could find for my frustrations was in writing. Eventually my first novel Ivory Madness was published and for a while I was euphoric despite the hideous cover. That euphoria didn't last and boredom surfaced yet again to tear my marriage apart and make life very miserable. It sounds vaguely perverted but what I missed most was the hideous risk as well as the freedoms of war. It is when life is at risk that men are free to find their own souls and I was no exception.
I don't think I was consciously looking for danger when I first challenged Lake Kariba in my dinghy, Hobo but I wanted to do something different, I wanted to challenge myself both physically and mentally and I wanted to do something that nobody else had ever done. I suppose I could have walked to one of the Poles or dome something world shattering, but in truth, I had no money so had to do something at home that wouldn't cost me anything. I didn't want publicity. I didn't want my name up in lights. It was just something I had to do for myself. Huh! I was rowing the lake in both directions - I must have covered well over a thousand kilometres - but I had never rowed a boat in my life. I took Deborah - then a little girl - out with me for 'sea trials' the day before I set out and we went merrily round in circles!
When it came to leaving Andora Harbour, those who came to see me off must have 
grown quite stiff and sore through waving for 45 minutes while I tried to find the harbour buoys. Never have I felt quite so thankful to get out of sight.
Hobo was 10 foot 3 inches of solid fibreglass. She had a double hull for buoyancy which I managed to smash by being driven onto rocks by my first storm and she was not designed as a rowing boat. For all that, she was the first boat I had owned and I loved her to bits. For 63 days we battled that great lake with all its fierce storms and spectacularly beautiful vistas. For 63 days, I went through every emotion possible and wondered what I was trying to prove and to who. Three times, I was 'shipwrecked,' but on each occasion, managed to get going again.
While ashore on Ruzi Island, I was bitten on the foot by a night adder which was not a nice experience, but for all the difficult moments, I enjoyed that wonderful feeling of being truly free. My life was entirely my own and that is a feeling modern man seems to have forgotten in this increasingly plastic age. Hobo and I saw huge crocodiles and an assortment of wild life. I spent time with hunters, tribesmen and other lake dwellers.
I ate little, having lost much of my food when I was driven ashore on my first night out from Kariba, but the exercise of rowing certainly toughened me up. I can remember smiling inwardly at Mlibizi when a tourist, catching the ferry the following day complained about the state of the road from Vic Falls.
'I reckon my hands were blistered from trying to hold that damned steering wheel.' he whined and I forbore from showing him my own hands - whitened and hard with a crust of callous from handling the oars for day after day.
I made it though and it was fun - to look back on at any rate. Nobody is ever likely to match the feat either so that has to be a bonus.
If anyone does attempt it, I hope they will let me know so that I can be there to advise and to cheer them on. The last pic is me at the end of it all - thinner, fitter and quite pleased with myself.