Words by Max Campbell

TW: Images of burns

The dusty islands of Cape Verde dwindle into the horizon behind me — and now I'm alone. It’s February 2017, and 2,100 miles of open ocean lie between me and my destination. I sit in the cockpit of Flying Cloud, my 22’ wooden yacht, attempting to comprehend the endless seascape. Never have I been so vulnerable, yet with the vulnerability comes a sense of raw human emotion. I feel alive.

I edge across the Atlantic. Days turns into weeks, and I find a prolonged euphoria that comes from constantly being surrounded by sea. It’s a blessing, to experience such a simple existence. The artificial pressures of society recede to a distant memory, and I find an authentic human nature. My days are governed by the environment around me — I’ve become humbled, present and connected to something greater than myself.

Two days away from the Caribbean, my paraffin stove catches fire. A bottle of methylated spirit explodes in my hand, enveloping my half-naked body in flames. In a moment of excruciating pain and pure adrenaline, I run outside and flip my body over the guard wire.  Quite a silly thing to do in the middle of an ocean. Yet luckily, amidst all the chaos, I had remembered to hold on with one hand. For a few moments, I trail in water behind Flying Cloud. If I let go, then there is no doubt she’ll sail away without me. I’ll be left here, bobbing around in the Atlantic, and that will be it.

As I clamber back into the boat, I notice large sheets of skin peeling of my shoulders and torso. Some big blisters are already starting to form, and my face feels stiff. My dream has turned into a nightmare. I study my reflection in a small piece of tarnished mirror and am horrified at the barely recognisable face that stares back at me.

I’m still a day away from the Caribbean. My body drops into a surreal state of shock; I struggle to stay warm, despite the tropical heat. At nighttime, I go onto the deck to change sails. As I work, I feel a warm trickle beneath my clothes as the blisters rupture. The situation is horrific, and I’m terrified. There’s an overpowering smell of charred skin and puss. In the early hours of the morning I begin to hallucinate. I lie on the floor of the cabin lost in the sound of water trickling past the hull. I don’t want to die aged 21, yet here I am perched delicately on deaths doorstep. It’s a matter of time before I fall one way or the other — I’ve done everything I can.

I'm strengthened by the rising sun, and at midday Grenada appears on the horizon like an apparition. I drop my anchor in the lee of the island and struggle to pump up the dinghy. I enjoy my first steps on land in three weeks, the short walk between the pontoon and a taxi. Despite the trauma, I still find a giggle when explaining the situation to the doctors. My story is almost unbelievable, they must think I’m insane.

For five days, I lie in my hospital bed. I manage to put on a brave face during the day, yet the nights are haunted by flashbacks of the fire. When I’m fit enough to travel, I secure Flying Cloud in a mangrove swamp, and return to the UK to recover.

For months I struggled to leave my room — I was depressed and had no control over my emotions. Often, I broke into tears over something insignificant, or acted like a dick towards someone I love. I felt robbed of a personality and found it almost impossible to break down the walls of anxiety and return to a normal, happy way of life. My story was in local newspapers, and I convinced myself that the whole world was talking about me. The signs pointed towards Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), but all I could gather is that both my brain and body were a mess.

Six months after the fire, I discovered the benefits of cold seawater. The inspiration came from a fellow sailor, a friend of mine called Ed Martin. On an early morning in February I went for a swim, I was struck by the vivid colors of the sunrise dancing on the still water. Wading out in my boardshorts was a step outside of my comfort zone, and I struggled to build up the will power to jump in. The immersion was overpowering — I felt my body contract in the icy water. An overwhelming stimulation of the senses — powerful enough to drag me out of my head and create a brief connection with the natural world.

The cold water left a soft tingling sensation on my skin, which I carried with me throughout the day. I felt energised yet content, I began to view the world through a different frame. My perception shifted, and for a few hours I managed to view the world not from a place of anxiety and gloom, but from a place of openness and positivity. I became addicted to the way it made me feel.

Since then, I enjoy swimming several times a week. It’s the act of stepping into an uncomfortable situation that I find beneficial. I’ve used cold water to train my willpower, which has allowed me to also step into uncomfortable social and personal situations too. There’s no doubt that sea swimming has played a vital part in my recovery, cold water has the magical power to cure. It’s a powerful tool, one that’s helped me rebuild the foundations of my confidence. 

A year after the fire, I returned to the Caribbean to rescue Flying Cloud. From Grenada, I cruised north through the islands and rediscovered my passion for sailing and adventure. I sailed back across the Atlantic, returning to Falmouth in one piece — stronger, wiser and with a collection of cool scars to show for my escapades.

Follow Max’s sailing adventures on his new yacht Elixir. Under the banner of Untide, Max and his friends aim to circumnavigate the planet, searching for waves and adventure whilst traveling in a way that’s sustainable and non-polluting.

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