The man behind the desk barely looks at it. “You’re in the yellow group, Ms. Dean. Wait by that door to collect your equipment.”
I loiter by the closed door, wondering who’ll be in my group. I’m not sure how Go Ape works—whether it’s a competitive thing. I feel competitive.
I switch on my phone and go to Safari, to look at a site that I’ve visited several times since James and I went stargazing last week. On the home page is a big red button that says: “Join the Mars Project.” For the umpteenth time, I press it.
The rules of the competition are simple: fill in the entry form, tick a box saying that you understand that if you’re chosen for the mission, you’ll never return to Earth, and then wait. There will be interviews, activities, and even some kind of online vote to select the crew.
I can’t believe there’s nothing in the eligibility criteria that excludes me from entering something like this. There are certain guidelines, like: “In reasonable health . . . Good-natured individual . . . Fast learner . . .” But everyone in this hut right now would probably describe themselves in those terms. Still, it makes you think.
“Morning, lads and lasses!” says a woman emerging from behind the door. “Can all the gorillas come forward, please? You need to pick up your harnesses.”
I’m first in the queue. I look back at the other gorillas, casting them a quick, hopefully not-too-smug smile. Most are too busy communicating with their baboons to notice me.
“Small, medium, or large, pet?” asks the woman. Behind her is a storeroom full of belts and buckles.
“Large,” I say, straightening my spine and revealing my full six feet to her.
She stares at me. “Reckon you’re only a medium, sweetheart.” She hands me a harness. “All about your waist circumference, see.” She motions to the person behind me. “Are you two together?”
“No,” I tell her. “I’m here on my own. Scouting out the place for a work event.”
“Pop it on over there, please.”
I’m going to be honest for the rest of the day. Why shouldn’t a grown woman attend Go Ape on her own? I’ve been wanting to come here for ages, but James has always called it a “glorified kids’ playground,” and it’s definitely not Anouk’s sort of thing. Besides, she’s been more or less off the radar since becoming a mum. With James at work, and nothing to do on this drizzly day, I jumped in the car and drove here by myself. No shame in that.
I go back to the bench and put on my equipment.
“Tricky,” laughs a woman in an orange anorak beside me, as her harness falls to the floor. She snorts with amusement. I move to the other end of the bench.
“Hi, team.” A guy of about my age approaches us, with a ginger beard and a can-do attitude. He’s wearing a black puffer jacket with the company logo on it, and his harness is already attached. “My name’s Matty, and I’ll be taking you on your Treetop Adventure today.”
Matty checks our harnesses and talks us through some basic safety stuff, then leads us out into the forest. I walk directly behind him, hoping that he’ll make conversation with me. He merely looks back every now and then to check that we’re all present. Eight gorillas, five baboons, and two hard-to-tells.
I listen to the squelch of my boots in the mud. You wouldn’t know that we’re so near to Exeter. I love being in places where all you can see is nature in every direction. Here, we’re surrounded by trees and hills. It’s a wilderness of sorts.
Matty comes to a stop and does an about-turn. “Who’s ready for some fun?” he asks, pointing to a rope ladder. The rope ladder is not much taller than I am. “It’s time to practise climbing!”
As Matty explains the colour-coding system and how to deal with a fear of heights, I get out my phone and take a surreptitious look.
“If you want to win this competition,” it says on the Mars Project site, “you’re going to need to be able to fly into the face of danger.”
I wonder what sort of training you’d need to do to go to Mars. Would rope ladders be involved? Probably not, but you’ve got to start somewhere. I put my phone away and concentrate on what Matty’s saying.
Ten minutes later, we get to the zip wires, and I glide weightlessly through the air, with nothing but a small hook to keep me anchored. I feel ready for anything.
3
“I’ve discovered my passion,” James announces, as we walk along Gyllyngvase Beach.
We’re throwing an inflatable red ball back and forth. It was lying on the sand this morning, a gift from the ocean.
“Your passion?” I hold on to the ball for a moment.
“It’s sourdough,” says James. “I’m going to make a starter culture and keep it going for years. I’m going to eat sourdough from the same starter when I’m a hundred.”
Aside from the red ball, other things that have washed up on the beach recently include: three dolphin carcasses, a Lego pirate, and innumerable shards of coloured glass. Flotsam and jetsam. Frothy words, making an ocean in the mouth. They’re types of marine debris. Flotsam is normally the result of a shipwreck. It floats on the water after an accidental spillage. Jetsam has been thrown into the water intentionally. Most likely it was chucked over the side of a sinking ship to lighten the load. People always forget about lagan and derelict. Lagan is attached to a buoy so that the owner can find it again. Derelict sinks to the seafloor.
“Solvig?” James asks. “What do you think? About my bread idea?”
“Eating sourdough. When you’re a hundred. Yum.” I throw the ball back. My arms are still aching from Go Ape.
The flotsam and jetsam
