My parents owned a small orchard in Kerikeri in the 1970s and it was my home during school and later, university breaks.  The Clark’s orchard was just a short distance away.  I knew of Gerry, more than knew him.  As a young man yearning for a role model, I tried to befriend him, but was politely rebuffed.

 

Fifteen years later on a solo bicycle trip through Northland.  I called at Homelands, the Clark’s property, not knowing if either Marjorie or Gerry were still living there. 

 

When I arrived, both were at the front step about to start whatever jobs they had planned for the afternoon.  After an hour of chatting, it was clear that I was not about to be invited to stay though it would have been obvious how much that would be appreciated.  It was not as if I was a complete stranger.  My father and Gerry had sailed together for six months.  I was forced to be forward, and then having won an invitation I set out to earn my keep by spending the rest of the afternoon helping with harvesting macadamia nuts.

 

A thousand times I have replayed, in my mind, vignettes from the subsequent evening I spent with them.  Gerry was hoping he would get the go-ahead for yet another expedition to the deep South.  Marjorie wanted to go for a drive, the next day which would be Gerry’s 72nd birthday.  Gerry appeared not to hear her.

 

Within a week of my visit, he got the call he was waiting for.  He was to take two wildlife researchers to Antipode Island in the Southern Ocean.  Within two weeks he and a crew member, Roger Sale set sail on that journey from which they would not return.

 

Originally I intended writing Marjorie’s story.  The story of a woman who was unbothered by her husbands repeated flirtations with death, seemed potentially interesting.  But after two weeks interviewing her, I realised that it would be too difficult for me to tell a woman’s story.  I had little empathy for the things that motivated her.  On the other hand, I found that I could understand Gerry’s distain for comfort and security, so decided to write about him instead. 

 

I believed that I was very lucky to have such an extraordinary story to tell.  For an aspiring author, it was a gift.  Writing about his life turned out, however, to be a long and difficult task.  Gerry had been the master of deflection.  He had been the most pleasant company anyone could ever have, but his internal life was under lock and key.

 

From a class mate who remembered him as a boy, to shipboard colleagues, relatives, neighbours, crew members, his publisher and his wife Marjorie, I spoke to every person who would give me the time, trying to glean the essence of his character.  A common thread emerged: ‘Gerry was admirable, well liked, but unknown’.  He never spoke of his early life and certain not of his innermost feelings.   I also had my own personal impressions and a factual account of the six-month journey my father made, sailing from England with him.  I had newspaper clipping lovingly saved by his greatest fan, Marjorie’s mother, and the book Gerry wrote about his biggest adventure of all; three and a half years spent mostly in the Southern Ocean, and eventually circumnavigating the globe.

 

The need for adventure is impossible to express in words. It has been said that ‘if you don’t understand, you never will’.  

Now there’s a challenge.  I have not attempted to explain the inexplicable, but hope that by telling Gerry’s story, and allowing you to draw your own conclusions, that you might make sense of what for many is unfathomable; the need for danger and duress. 

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