I'm wondering what lengths people have undergone to research events or real life situations for their writing?
Earlier this year, I went on a 'trip'.
In my novel one of my protagonists goes on a trip where he finds himself out of water and food in a harsh environment. In preparation of understanding what it was like, I took a trip of my own.
One autumn morning, I had my Father drop me off at a remote beach in southern Australia with no food, no shoes, no water, no cellphone.
I took with me only the bare essentials - a shirt, shorts, flint, fishing rod, hunting knife, old empty coffee tin and a few other minor bits and pieces. My instructions were simple, walk about twenty kilometers over rocky outcrops and harsh coastline to a destination where I'd be picked up in a couple of days (three to be exact). I had to time the event to perfection, making sure the swell was small enough so no king waves would wash me away.
The journey was tough and I quickly found out that food wasn't the problem. Around midday I caught six fish and proceeded to gut and clean them. It was hot so I stayed out of the sun to cook my catch on a makeshift grill plate I'd made out of some wire that I had found and my backpack frame. I had a nice meal and continued the trek in the late afternoon, hoping to cover at least five kilometers before the sun disappeared.
Along the way I scavenged the beach for empty water bottles, finding one, two liter container. I bunked up behind some sandstone boulders that night, using driftwood from around the area to keep a fire going through the cold hours of darkness. Without a jacket and temperatures falling to almost zero degrees, I struggled to stay warm. I used every ounce of knowledge I had learned from my life growing up in the bush. After the fire had burned down I took some of the coals and covered them with beach sand. This had a dramatic effect on my body temperature, for a while... A sleepless night incurred and I rose early to continue my walk before the sun beat-down once again.
The next day I found a creek, much to my delight as dehydration was starting to set in. I filled my stomach with as much as it would take and did the same with my water-bottle. I trekked on and only managed to catch a meager amount of fish for lunch. Fortunately I chanced upon a reef of abalone - a shelled crustacean found in shallow water. I peeled them off with my knife and packed them into the coffee tin for breakfast.
I chanced upon a small cave to sleep in that night, but firewood was difficult to find. I scoured the beach for a few hundred meters in either direction, consuming precious energy and water in the process. I'd already drunk most of the bottle and I needed to ration what was left or I'd promptly run out. Problem being, the salt in the fish and wind was drying me out like a piece of jerky.
Half way through the night, my firewood vanished into flame and I was left with no choice but to walk to keep myself warm. Rock hopping across huge expanses of stony terrain without a torch or shoes at night is dangerous, but the situation left me little choice. Walking for half a night at a crawling pace was not only energy consuming but mentally tough as well. Only allowing myself a sip of water every hour felt like the equivalent of not touching a willing Penelope Cruz.
The third day was the hardest, I still had a few kilometers to go and my water was completely gone by morning. The sun came up and brought with it the heat. I decided to bunk-down again and avoid it. My mouth by this stage felt like sandpaper and I decided consuming anything with salt in it was going to be worse for me, so I left the fish and abalone in the ocean.
I journeyed with the afternoon sun and much to my delight, my Father was waiting in the car at a well known surf-break with a big bottle of... Water!
The trip was tough, but I loved every moment of it and am glad I did it.



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