Adventure Sports

Being a Cancerian, a water sign, the sea always attracted and fascinated me. In high school we had a NCC Naval Unit which I promptly enrolled in. The high point of the NCC experience was a sailing outing in a class of boats called “Whalers”. These were boats with oars and they had a basic rig to mount sails.  We, the cadets, were taken for one outing with the sails set up. I prayed to the weather Gods that we would not have to row back if the wind shifted against us unfavourably.  Little did I know that the physics of sail boats allows them to move towards any destination, regardless of wind direction. You can sail with the wind or tack against it!

After completing B.Tech from IIT-B, I took a sabbatical in my hometown in Panjim, Goa, enjoying life as a hippie (minus drugs and debauchery), indulging in my love of the sea – swimming, learning how to sail and figuring out a relatively new sport back in 1985 – called windsurfing; there were no trainers at that time.

At the end of that sojourn, I returned to Bombay to take part in my first big race, the National Windsurfing Championship. I stayed on to join the rat race of my engineering career for a dozen years while nurturing my passion for sailing and water sports in Bombay.

Contrary to the myth, leisure sailing can hardly be called an adventure sport because there is a minimal risk factor. The risk is in going out sailing when weather warnings are on. Ironically, the same experienced sailors who once warned me to ‘never get cocky with the sea’, took me out sailing with them once, when there was a storm brewing. It was certainly a close call.

I joined Colaba Sailing Club, a subsidiary of the Royal Bombay Yacht Club, and participated with the Club’s sailboats in weekend regattas in the vicinity of Bombay harbour.  During that time I also bought a windsurfer and enjoyed the freedom of practically walking on water; but that is another story.

Over the years, I did three long distance sails from Bombay to Goa and back, and a lot of National race events.

As I sit down to pen my experiences of the recent trek to Hampta Pass near Manali, I find myself transported back to the breathtaking yet treacherous terrain that tested not only my physical endurance but also my mental resilience. The journey was not just about traversing through majestic landscapes but about confronting fears, pushing limits.

Hampta Pass, nestled in the heart of the Pir Panjal Range of the Himalayas, is a legendary high-altitude trekking destination renowned for its rugged beauty and challenging terrain. Towering at an impressive height of 14,100 feet above sea level, this mountainous gateway serves as a bridge between the verdant valleys of Kullu and the stark, barren landscapes of Lahaul and Spiti.

My experience on the trek was nothing short of transformative, characterized by moments of both fear and exhilaration. The journey to Hampta Pass began innocuously enough, with anticipation and excitement fueling our spirits as we set out to conquer the trail. However, little did I know that the serene beauty surrounding us would soon give way to a harrowing ordeal that would test the limits of my courage and resilience.

As we ascended towards the towering heights of Hampta Pass, the thin air at such altitudes began to take its toll on my body. At around 13,900 feet, the first signs of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) began to manifest, a reminder of the unforgiving nature of high-altitude trekking. Despite the onset of symptoms, including headaches and nausea, I was determined to press on, fueled by a sense of determination (also there is no way back 😢)

With each step forward, the air grew thinner, and the terrain more treacherous. Every breath felt like a battle against the elements, as my heart pounded relentlessly and my lungs gasped for precious oxygen. The weight of the altitude pressed down upon me, a constant reminder of the physical and mental challenges that lay ahead.

To add to the already daunting circumstances, nature decided to throw us a curveball in the form of unexpected snowfall 🥶.  The tranquil landscape transformed into a whiteout, with visibility reduced to a mere 30-40 metres. The footprints of those who had forged ahead quickly disappeared beneath the blanket of snow, leaving us with no choice but to forge ahead blindly, relying solely on our instincts and the guidance of our trek lead.