Conquering the Impossible by Mike Horn Page A

returned to the helm, and started pumping again. But the hand pump was just not powerful enough; I had to go back down and start bailing with a bucket, which I would then have to empty into my shower, which drains out by means of the through-hulls, which I had to open again. On my knees on the cockpit floor, I was emptying bucket after bucket of water while the electric pump went on emptying water, doing its part.
    And slowly, at long last, the water level began to drop … Once it was below the floor boards I climbed down into the hold and kept on bailing. When finally there was no more than ten inches or so of water at the bottom of the hull, I made a careful examination of the whole interior, inch by inch, in search of the leak.
    There was no leak that I could see, but I did notice one important thing. The tree trunk had somehow smashed into the stern and hit the propeller. The propeller shaft is enclosed in an aluminum casing that is equipped with a “stuffing box,” a carbon disk that, through a valve mechanism, prevents water from leaking into the hull around the propeller shaft. It turned out that the motor that was driving the pump was actually spilling water into the boat after the tree trunk split the casing of the propeller shaft.
    There was no way that I could repair it, but I did see a way to reduce the flooding considerably. I sliced the inner tube that I always carry with me aboard a boat into strips and stretched these strips of rubber to create a sort of supertight bandage around the aluminum casing. At the same time, I kept on bailing to bring down the water level a little farther, in an attempt to make the work a bit easier. I was crouching in the dark, bent over double, working with my hands plunged into the icy water that kept flooding into the boat. My fingers, barely recovered from the frostbite, partially amputated and practically numb, were making the job especially challenging.
    The whole time I was working like this, the icebergs—more and more of them as I neared the coast—were sliding past me in an endless procession. If I hit one of them, the boat would sink for sure. On the other hand, if I did nothing to stop the water from pouring into my boat, the end result would be no different. I knew that if I could only stop the leak before I hit something, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance of making it to dry land. In any case, sitting there at the helm of a sinking ship, with no idea where the water was pouring in from and without doing anything to try to stop it, was more than I could stand.
    So I kept stretching my strips of inner tube, which I forced into place with pliers and wire. When I was done, the water pressure from outside was still too great for there to be a perfect seal, but it was pretty close. Now, the hand pump and electric pump combined ought to be sufficient. I went back to my place at the rudder, content and relieved. I’d made my bet and I had won. I had made it through the icebergs and the growlers; my boat was sailing serenely over the gray swells. I had saved the boat and my expedition, too.
    Next, I called Jean-Philippe to alert him that I was going to need a new aluminium casing for my propeller shaft. Was there, by any chance, anywhere around Scoresby Sound a boat repair shop or even a garage—anyplace at all where I might be able to leave my boat for repairs while I trekked across the country?
    â€œAbsolutely nothing,” came the answer, two hours later. “Moreover, there isn’t even an airport, however small. There is no way to meet up with you there. You are going to have to sail directly to Angmagssalik.”
    This tiny port village, with a population of three hundred, was located just below the Arctic Circle. It was no better equipped, but at least it had an airfield so that my team could meet up with me, bringing the necessary spare parts.
    I set my course southward, sailing along the coast.
    Not everybody has friends in