Better than we know

Founder Kurt Hahn was right: We are better than we know.

Last updated 05:00 28/08/2010

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Jonathan Cameron uses his electric toothbrush during his solo camp at Hauhou bay.

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Taranaki Daily News chief photographer Jonathan Cameron has just returned from an eight-day Outward Bound course. This is his story, one that's good to remember next week during Multiple Sclerosis Awareness Week. It proves Outward Bound founder Kurt Hahn was right: We are better than we know.

Bellbirds sing. The electric toothbrush jars, it seems wrong. First morning solo in the bush, Outward Bound, Queen Charlotte Sound. The bush experience was right given time to recover from long days/early mornings of the past six days. Sailing, rock-climbing, kayaking and being challenged, a word heard often at Anakiwa, home of New Zealand Outward Bound.

A week earlier, midday Picton, eight strangers gather and surrender connection to the outside world cellphones, wallets, books and iPods into recycled A4 envelopes, to be returned to us eight days later at the end of the course. Our group is made up of eight, ranging in age from their 30s to late 70s.

Annette: sharp-eyed, strong and very determined, from the horse world in Waikato.

Debbie: understated, with wry sense of humour, Dunedin.

Julieanne: very caring, great sense of humour, Wellington.

Heidi: Estonian, brought up in Germany, from Anakiwa works there and hugs everyone.

Trevor: CEO of Outward Bound, both knees replaced, played rugby till 37, formal, good guy, Wellington.

Hilary: a doctor from Auckland, watchful of others and good on the helm.

Ruth: 77, a renovator from Christchurch, infinitely capable and forthright.

Me.

Plus three instructors: Catherine (''You can be cold, wet and miserable, or just cold and wet.''); Gilby, proudly from the Wairarapa, a ready smile and lambchop sidies; and Stu, a yachtsman who has sailed the world, including a close shave with Somali pirates.

It sounds and looks like a reality show with the difference we're not in competition. Quite the opposite.

That afternoon, we sit Velcro tight in the stern of a 10m cutter, share something of our lives. Later that night, after sailing to Te Kainga Bay, we're told we are sleeping in the cutter, 10-litre paint bucket at the bow as a toilet and a nylon fly over the yardarm for shelter. The cutter was moored in the bay. I stretched out with a view of the stars fantastic, late-night pee over the bow. Fell asleep and woke to rain and the realisation that I wasn't covered by the fly and this was real. The rest of the night was spent like a question mark, with a wussy pad over my head (that's what Heidi called the dense blue plastic pads we slept on). From there on in, we found out there were pre-dawn starts and morning physical therapy, be it low impact, and one morning Ruth lead us in tai chi before an icy dip in the sea.

Next adventure was to sail to Motura Island and Ships Cove. Day starts overcast and still. We get a tow from the Matakana, a support craft (ex-Wahine lifeboat, converted). The wind picks up as we sail past Tory Channel, getting a bow wave from a passing Cook Strait ferry. Tacking up the western side of Blumine Island, a gust 25-30 knots hits. The call is to let fly (ie, let the sails out). Debbie falls to the deck holding the main sheet she hasn't heard. Annette is nearly flung over the bow and Ruth receives an egg on the head from the mast. Another cutter called Endeavour sails alongside; the crew smiles and waves and is off like some sea bird, one with a great wingspan. I shirk my duty on the main sheet to grab a couple of pictures of it.

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Main sheet reefed and seamlessly the Matakana pulls up alongside and Stu steps onboard not breaking a smile or conversation.

Twenty or so dolphins escort us the next day on our voyage to Anakiwa. After creating a jigsaw blindfolded, we slept at Batten watch house, which consisted of a large dorm of seven bunk beds a drying room and combined unisex toilets and showers (cubical) ''I suppose the men are going to use this as well.'' and a carpet room where we sat on squabs and witnessed a ballet performance by Julieanne, Heidi, Ruth and Trevor of sailing and dolphins. My group's rock and roll theme was let down by my lack of cohesion as Elvis (voice over). The term for the huts, watch house, come from the name given to the individual groups that occupy them: watch.

Climbing a 25-meter rock face was very hard, very hard; Debbie from Dunedin, who was looking shaky at the start, climbed it twice and was up for a third climb, bruised shins and all. As always, told the bare minimum of what came next so we could focus and be present at the time.

Later that night, we drove about an hour to kayak camp near the Rai River, the sound of rushing water, big volumes, burr, very dark well, for me, who couldn't find my torch. Camp basic: a single raised platform about 30cm over the dirt floor, which took up two-thirds of the shelter. A cold night, frosty but dry. Morning, the call was made: the river was running too high. So we drove past Canvastown, up a winding gravel valley road. The group was gelling. I sat beside Hilary. She told me of crewing adventure at sea under sail, seasickness and riding out a huge storm and frustration over getting the captain's ear before emigrating to New Zealand. In her teens, she and her sister had made the Olympic sailing trials in England, only to have plans dashed because her sister the captain wasn't a boy.

Within the group, big issues were being talked about: murder, raging against the night, middle age, hip, knee replacements, death and multiple sclerosis. Mine is the MS and that's what got me a place on the course. I've had MS for many years and kept it on the low down, thinking it would erode my future as a photographer even as a functioning blah blah ... anyway, the upshot is I am writing this, let's talk about ...

Ruth and I were talking one night in the carpet room (3x3 meters). I suspected later that we kept others awake.

Ruth: I used to have a BSA Bantam. On a trip to Oamaru, I rode into a service station, pulled down my scarf, asked for petrol. ''Good God it's a Girl,'' the attendant said. In her early days, out of teacher's college, she worked for the education department in the Whanganui region as phys ed coordinator, going out to schools in the backblocks in her 1926 Nash, sometimes transporting tribes of kids on running boards. Later in life, she had had it with being a guidance counsellor in a large Auckland school, moved her life to Christchurch, she drove the removal truck and became a renovator. Along the way, she spent time in Canada as a antinuclear peace activist. Oh and has sea kayaked in the Antarctic.

Kayaking on the Wakamarina was a blast and real fun. Gilby: ''This is fun and you're having it.'' Eat lunch on the river bank in the sun. Wekas checked in to see if there was anything of interest.

On return to Anakiwa that night, during dinner duty the talk was that we were to go solo. This was confirmed later two nights solo, a ground sheet and fly rolled up and taken for shelter, rations (flapjacks, raw peanuts and sultanas, a couple of carrots in a brown paper bag), as much water as you want to carry and pack along with a 10-litre paint bucket for toilet. We travel in late in darkness on the Matakana about 5km to Hauhou Bay, land, and after some falling over and help, I am at my solo site. I sit in the dark about 15 minutes, then look around and hang the fly off a tree stump and tree roots. The ground is about a 45deg slope, but there is a flat section dug out. No rain and a clear, still night. Slept well; even with the two wussy pads, it's hard. The next night, I'm better prepared with bracken and fern under the ground sheet.

Bellbirds sing. The electric toothbrush jars, it seems wrong. First morning solo in the bush. The day goes easy. I follow the sun, watch and listen to the birds. Go to bed as the sun drops, wake middle of the night cold, crawl out of my sleeping bag (two pairs of warm socks on, two pairs of thermal pants, two thermal tops, jersey woollen and woollen hat), slip, trip over, fall down, repeat, then go for a pee, then scramble back to bed and pull on a extra balaclava. Morepork morepork, wake in the morning to a duck going on and on about something. After being picked up, we return with our buckets. The three heaviest buckets receive a chocolate fish.

Last day very early start, dark, wet, gathering in the circular formation, head torches on. Yes, we're doing high ropes, harnessed and helmets. Light is just starting to dawn, we train on low ropes, safety carabines, then climb about 15 meters up in trees and repeat the same exercise, hard but doable. Feet slip, drag myself back, it's all good till I slip off the climbing wall section falling a couple of meters, nice back arch. Thanks, safety.

While we have finished eight days, other watch houses are finishing 21 days. Songs, ceremony, hugs and meaningful eye contact. Instructors stand on piers of the jetty as the ferry pulls away and jump in the sea. One flips.

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