Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain, Jonathan Bloom [best ebook reader TXT] 📗

the mountain beyond it would be irrelevant. Fenimore recommended looking for a more forgiving route on the north side of the Qila dominion, but Junk felt the gamble was too great. A hike to the north around the outside of Qila - to the east of Abel and Mitya - would be two solid weeks, and the odds were high that no easier pass would be found. No one who had tried to climb Fumu had ever come across one. They would take the Qila Pass or die trying.

As the Souls at Sea left the continental shelf of the Americas and the swells began to grow, the vomiting began. Those seasoned climbers who had been on ships before were better off, vomiting only when the weather got rougher. River Leaf also did relatively well. But McGee was unstoppable. He vomited throughout the day and dry-heaved throughout the night. He would sit in bed waiting for sleep to rescue him from this ceaseless universe of movement, but it rarely came. At Junk’s pleading, McGee drank water constantly so as not to dehydrate. For the first time since he was about twelve years old, McGee stopped drinking alcohol entirely. Although not in much better shape, the rest of the team mothered him as best they could. McGee, who had little experience writing anything, began to compose a journal, just to keep his brain busy. The sentences were childlike in their brevity, lack of capitalization, and incompleteness. “I fel (sic) teribel (sic)” he wrote. “No horizin (sic). Just waves. Where is gravutee (sic) coming from? From difrent (sic) places every momint (sic).” For the whole team, especially McGee, their stomachs would not stop until they reached shallow waters again.

The journey then hit a serious snag about two weeks in. Junk had an uncanny sense of direction, and for the life of him, he could not detect any southerly tendency in the ship’s course. The sun remained at their bow every morning and to their stern at sunset. This concerned him no end. Were they not going to head into the South Atlantic and make their way into the Indian Ocean around Cape Agulhas. If so, then by now he would have surely detected some gentle turn to starboard. But none came. Junk gently prodded Cooper about the route, but Cooper always showed resistance. “Leave the route to me” Cooper would say in a patronizing voice. But Junk was persistent. He began to ask other related questions in the hopes of obtaining clues about their course. “How long do you estimate before we see the African continent on our port side?” But Cooper did not bite. “Don’t you worry Mr. Junk. I will you get you to your destination.”

Finally, Junk was out of patience. One evening after the crew had attained a state between drunk and asleep, Junk convinced his team member Cole to inquire about the chances of coming ashore in Liberia. “I’ve heard great things about the natives. Apparently they look resplendent in their colourful robes. I fancy myself a photographer and would love to take some photographs.” The Americans were all at the table and they listened intently for Cooper’s reply. Cooper was not fooled. After a long pause and a smile clearly designed to mas annoyance, he pushed himself away from the table at which he sat and said “Fine Junk. You really want to know? No, we are not going around Cape Horn. We are going to get there by way of the Mediterranean. It is a far quicker route.”

This was Junk’s worst fear realized. He immediately inquired as to whether Cooper was insane. Such a route would take them within firing range of the European continent. The Straits of Gibraltar were guarded by the British, who upon detecting a ship full of pirates would show no quarter. And even on the outside chance the British missed them or did let them pass, the Germans and Vichy French were making air and sea incursions on Gibraltar regularly. Never mind the German navy controlling most of the Mediterranean that lay beyond, or the Suez Canal bordered as it was by Italian occupied territory, The Straits of Gibraltar was a death trap.

Morrow recalled in his writing that Cooper was visibly angered:

“He barked through gritted teeth ‘Fear is for animals. Not men.’ Junk, also angry, responded, ‘My reaction is based on pure reason, not emotion. You are greatly decreasing the odds my team will make it to their destination. And besides, I see nothing manly about taking your boat straight into the devil’s cloacae. It is suicide. And homicide.’ Cooper stood up and yelled ‘You speak of pure reason? You are a reasonable man? Look where I am taking you! You want to arrive safely at your death. We are both suicidaland homicidal, so do not try to paint me as the madman.’

Junk tried to respond but was quickly interrupted by Cooper yelling “Enough!” and having the Americans placed in the hold, where they were to stay for one week. They would be let out after that time only if they agreed to never question the captain again.

The week in the hold was horrible for everyone. There were only two small portholes letting in natural light. The floors and walls were made of metal. There were only two chairs and no beds or cots. Wooden crates full of unknown contents shared limited space with their own climbing equipment and clothing. The remainder of the room, perhaps half of its total size, was left for them to exist. “I suspect solitary confinement is preferable to shared confinement. We started out well, commiserating about our condition, but soon were bickering over everything; where to sleep, how best to manage the rats, and whether or not we should negotiate an early release. Our response to McGee’s sickness turned from sympathy to frustration. Every wretch was met with grumblings about the stench and the need to request more cleaning supplies from the pirates.

Junk