In search of Perpendicular Moisture – Part Seven: Fight or Flight
This was panic lie I had never before experienced. Over the years I have been swimming with Great White Sharks off the coast of Cape Town, traversed a near vertical slope without any form of guide or safety ropes, jumped out of numerous planes requiring the use of my secondary parachute on more than one occasion, and even sat in the Kop end at Anfield wearing a Manchester United shirt.
None of the above could even hold a dribbly candle to the fear I was harbouring now. It was bowel clenching, gut wrenching, pant wetting fear. By the looks of the small puddle that had formed and was quickly evaporating under our sound recorder Steve, my companions were experiencing a similar level of panic.
Shifting slightly to one side to prevent any splashback on my Timberland Boots, I knew we had barely seconds to make a decision. The beast seemed docile and barely aware of our presence, but for how long I really wasn't willing to speculate. Edging slowly back to my companions, who had now seemingly (and fortunately) emptied their bladders, I whispered to them to follow me.
We crept as silently as is physically possible with a boom mic and full camera kit, and headed for the entrance to the beasts lair. We were literally feet away from rounding the corner when Steve slipped, dropped his microphone and ran from the cave, squealing like a wounded piglet.
I had barely a second to catch a glance at our Swedish cameraman before we were both knocked off our feet by a bellowing roar that seemed to shake the very walls of the cave. The beast was staring unblinkingly at us, drool pouring from the corners of its cavernous mouth, its nose twitching as it took in every last molecule of sweat, fear and, unfortunately, urine.
For the umpteenth time today, I found myself gazing down at my Timberland Boots, though quite what I was expecting to come from the gaze I don't know. My mind was made up for me however, when Sven bolted, and within seconds I was speeding past him and away from the monstrous beast.
None of the above could even hold a dribbly candle to the fear I was harbouring now. It was bowel clenching, gut wrenching, pant wetting fear. By the looks of the small puddle that had formed and was quickly evaporating under our sound recorder Steve, my companions were experiencing a similar level of panic.
Shifting slightly to one side to prevent any splashback on my Timberland Boots, I knew we had barely seconds to make a decision. The beast seemed docile and barely aware of our presence, but for how long I really wasn't willing to speculate. Edging slowly back to my companions, who had now seemingly (and fortunately) emptied their bladders, I whispered to them to follow me.
We crept as silently as is physically possible with a boom mic and full camera kit, and headed for the entrance to the beasts lair. We were literally feet away from rounding the corner when Steve slipped, dropped his microphone and ran from the cave, squealing like a wounded piglet.
I had barely a second to catch a glance at our Swedish cameraman before we were both knocked off our feet by a bellowing roar that seemed to shake the very walls of the cave. The beast was staring unblinkingly at us, drool pouring from the corners of its cavernous mouth, its nose twitching as it took in every last molecule of sweat, fear and, unfortunately, urine.
For the umpteenth time today, I found myself gazing down at my Timberland Boots, though quite what I was expecting to come from the gaze I don't know. My mind was made up for me however, when Sven bolted, and within seconds I was speeding past him and away from the monstrous beast.