At noon I found that I had still 429 miles to go to New York. We passed through a narrow band of white froth and yellow seaweed, 25 yards wide, and stretching as far as I could see both ways. The sea seemed to be a bit smoother on the entry side.
I charged the batteries for an hour and thirty-six minutes, and what a din the engine made! I felt that I still had to go on playing with the sails, but could get nothing in the way of an improvement in speed. I took down the poled-out jib because the wind seemed to be coming from a bit too much ahead, and I tried playing the main and genoa sheets, but got nothing out of it all. With evening, the barometer began dropping fairly fast, so I took in the big genoa. I had a bit of trouble with the jib which I set in its place, because a shackle got caught behind the foretopmast stay, causing a twist in the tack of the sail, so I slackened away the halliard and unfastened and re-fastened the shackle. There was still a lovely balmy air, but I thought that I could see what looked like rain squalls ahead. I decided to put back the clock to Eastern Standard Time of the USA: that made it five hours less than British Summer Time.
The rest of that night I spent trying to catch the wind, changing and resetting sails time and time again. It was a long night, because I had put the clocks back. A wet fog came up and I could see that I was going to get wet in the cockpit, so I changed from pyjamas into my Jantzen swimming trunks. Some blocks were hitting the spinnaker pole and making an irritating noise, so I had to damp them down. During the early morning Gipsy’s speed seemed to drop for a bit, and I couldn’t make out why. The boom had been banging for a time, and she never likes that, but I had stopped it. I think she must have been becalmed, or nearly so, for a time. I tried to sleep, but through the cabin porthole I saw lightning away to the north, so I got up and retrimmed the sails. It was still misty, but clear overhead, and Gipsy Moth was going better. I hardened up all the sheets, but the wind swung round as I was doing so. I tried to put her on the starboard tack, but we ended up heading SSE., in a calm. I eased the sheets again, and gradually brought her back to a better course.
Dawn brought a greenish sea, and again I took the temperature of the water. It was 54 degrees, which I took to be the influence of the Labrador current. It was still foggy, and I began hearing steamers round me. I was not too comfortable about them, and I got ready to start the motor in case I needed it to get out of the way in a hurry. I was not going to use the motor unless I was driven to it of course, but it seemed better to make sure that everything was ready.
This morning, July 1st, saw me thirty days out from Plymouth, but I was still 340 miles short of New York. I tried the other tack again to see if I could make more progress, but it was dropping calm. Tacking seemed a waste of time, but there we were, and I couldn’t bear to see the boat heading away from the objective. I tacked again and again; it seemed pretty hopeless, but we did succeed in making a rustle through the water. It was rather uncanny to be moving through an oily, smooth surface, and to see swells moving under it before the wind had had time to wrinkle it. I wanted to try to get some more charge into the radio batteries, but I did not like to run the motor with steamers hooting in several quarters at once in pretty thick fog, because the noise of the motor made it difficult to hear the steamers. I must then have been in or near the main steamer channel of the Eastern Seaboard, where it rounds George’s Bank. I laid a course which would take me north of George’s Shoal, but I knew that if we wavered about we might hit the middle of it. I wrote in my log, ‘Wind, oh wind, blow fair for little Gipsy Moth.’
At lunchtime we were still more or less becalmed, but I was entertained by a large pod of whales—grampuses, I think—which appeared to be coming straight for Gipsy Moth. I thought that they might get annoyed if they hit us, so when one lot were about 10 yards away, I blew my foghorn, which I had handy for steamers. They dived under the boat, and came up about 50 yards on the other side. It was an uncanny business: there were two schools of them, coming from different directions, and as soon as they met there was a tremendous swirling of water, and they all disappeared. They seemed to be playing. They were so close to each other that I could not decide if each had two dorsal fins, or whether one was following the other so closely as to make it seem like that. There were steamers hooting everywhere. One can become over-sensitized to noise, and I think I was then, a bit. I heard what I took to be a diaphone to the north, and it turned out to be my rudder stock, moaning.
The wind went to and fro, to and fro, swinging round from NE., through W., to SE. In the late afternoon we began to move again, and since there seemed to be fewer steamers about, I thought that I would charge the batteries. I charged for a time, and when I switched off I had a shock: I heard the sound of running water. I looked in the bilge, and saw it half full of water, which I measured and found to be 17 inches deep. Suddenly seeing water like that in a boat is a shock: where was it coming from? How big was the hole? I located the trouble at the joint of the pipe with the silencer cooling jacket—the pipe was fractured and water, pumped up by the engine for the cooling system, had been coming through. Having located the trouble, I could not remember where the sea cock was for turning off the water in that pipe. Finally, I did remember that it was underneath the seawater filter for the engine. The pipe was too hot to touch, so I just put a piece of tape round it, and then wound cord round that. Turning off the seacock was also a problem, because of the hot engine parts round it, but in the end I managed to turn it off without getting burned—not much burned, anyway. That secured things for the moment, and then I set about pumping to empty the bilges.
I knew that I would have to think out what I could do to make a better repair of the burst pipe before long, but I was tired after pumping, and although it was only about six-thirty in the evening, I decided to try to get some sleep. I awoke about eight-thirty to find that the wind had veered to the NE. That made it rather awkward to lay the course I wanted without booming out my twin jibs, but I was against doing this at night after having had such fickle winds all day, so I trimmed up as best I could and went back to my bunk.
I was up again at midnight, and again at two a.m., both times to trim the sails. There was a clear sky, with all the stars showing. I turned in again, but at half past four I was woken up, or thought I was, by a loud crack. I dressed and went on deck, but could find nothing wrong there, and nothing to change. I hardened the main sheet a little, but then decided that it had been better as it was before, so put it back again. I thought that the course was perhaps a little too high, but she slowed down if paid off, so I left her.
After turning in again at five-thirty a.m., I slept until eight o’clock. I must have slept particularly well, for I awoke with a sense of heavenly luxury, and feeling a new man compared with yesterday. My dumps then were chiefly through fatigue. I did my usual chores, checked the jib sheets, and hardened the main sheet, but alas, the wind was dying down. I got a sun sight, but on working it out I came to the conclusion that it was not dependable, and decided to try again after breakfast. But there were other things to do, too. I had to try to get some charge into the batteries, and I had to have a go at the beastly dirty engine pipe where it had sprung a leak. The temporary repair seemed to be holding, so I decided to put off tackling the pipe until after I had got my noon sight. I took the temperature of the water again, and it was 52 degrees, so I was glad to think that we were in the Labrador Corridor, and being helped along a bit. I had a shave, and the wind backed while I was shaving, so I had to go back on deck and retrim the sails. A fishing schooner seemed to be over-hauling me, but he crossed astern instead; he was headed for Nantucket Island, I would say.
My noon position put me 224 miles from New York, and I reckoned that we had sailed about 110 miles in the past twenty-four hours, and made good about 114, the extra 4 miles being a bonus from the Labrador current.
It was really time for lunch, but the pipe job was on my conscience, and so I got down to it—literally very much down, for I had to get my head right into the bilge to get a
t the pipe. It was a horrible job, and it took me until about half past three in the afternoon. Having missed lunch, I gave myself a Mackeson, and reckoned that I deserved it. The repairs seemed satisfactory, so I started the motor to charge the batteries. The exhaust flame was beginning to show through again where I had done my earlier repairs to the exhaust pipe, but the water pipe repair seemed to be okay. I gave the batteries a bit of charge, but I didn’t run the engine long for I didn’t want to risk things.
The wind was steadily heading us, but Gipsy Moth kept going at about 4 knots. It was a perfect sunny day, and it was rather like sailing on a slightly wrinkled mill-pond. During the afternoon what I took to be the Texas Tower became visible in the NW. I soon identified it as the Texas Tower, and it stayed in sight all evening. This Texas Tower is one of those ‘early warning’towers, and a mate of the one that was sunk 90 miles SE. of New York in a storm in 1960. There seemed to be a mirage all round, and the top of the tower showed like a natural dome on long mirage-stilted legs. I watched the top half of the sun set through my X7 binoculars. It was a fascinating and wonderful sight, with an unusual reflection, which caused the mirage. The sinking sun took all sorts of shapes. At one moment it looked like a heap of dumped molten metal of irregular shape, then it appeared like a priest’s flat hat, and finally like a thick cake tin, with upright edges. A green wisp followed its disappearance. The sky was totally clear of cloud, with a purplish rim of haze all round the horizon, rather like heather mixture. It appeared to be dead calm, but Gipsy Moth ghosted along nicely. She was doing 42⁄3 knots, although it seemed incredible.
I had a good talk to London, and afterwards at last contacted New York Radio. They told me that Sheila had arrived safely, and I arranged to make another call next day.
I was glad of the help from the Labrador current, although it was not all one way because it made everything much colder. I had to have the stove in the cabin on again, and I could no longer afford to take my pyjamas off when I went on deck at night to avoid getting wet. I thought again about those grampuses I had seen yesterday, and I suddenly remembered that for the first time on the voyage I had my fishing line out. (I didn’t catch anything.) The same thing had happened in 1960 when I tried to catch a fish on the Grand Banks: I had hardly got the line down when a crowd of whales turned up. But I don’t go for the big stuff—not when I am racing!
The early hours of July 3rd saw us headed by the wind again, so I tacked. It wasn’t much good, so I tacked again, but it still wasn’t any good, and I felt that things were terrible. The trouble was I had got spoilt; I had got used to ghosting at a good speed with a light air, but naturally Gipsy Moth couldn’t do just what I wanted when she was hard on the wind. Anyway, I couldn’t change things, so I stayed on the tack we were on. It was just as well, for a little later the wind suddenly shifted round about 100 degrees, and it would have done us no good if I had been sound asleep while we were on the other tack. I freed the sheets and reset Miranda for a reach. The wind fell off again with daylight, but left us still moving gently to the west. While I was down below looking over the engine I heard an aeroplane overhead. It seemed to say, ‘Wake up, this is America’. Around eleven o’clock that morning I saw a rather smart fishing boat—New York seemed to be getting nearer. But the wind kept going all round the clock, demanding endless sail changing. Much sail changing is a weariness to the flesh, but it seemed almost fun that day because of the gorgeous weather. I wore swimming trunks and shoes only, and had a good sea wash in the cockpit. I saw more fishing boats, some with four or five chaps on them.
At lunchtime there was no more bread, for what I still had left had become too mouldy to eat. We spent the rest of that afternoon hard on the wind, and around four o’clock I changed the genoa for the jib. That seemed to send her speed up a bit, and we covered 6·1 miles in the next sixty-five minutes. I had a sort of race on with myself, for I was only 15 miles behind my position for the same time of day on July 20, 1960. I had been pretty well becalmed then, 12 miles SW. of Montauk Point, but I remembered that I had had a very fast sail for nine hours after that. I would have my work cut out to overtake myself on my sail in 1960, and I hoped that the wind would hold. When I talked to David Fairhall in London in the evening he told me the forecast was that the wind would hold.
I couldn’t tear myself away from the deck; it was perhaps my last night’s sail of the race, and Gipsy Moth was going her best. It was almost the same wind and speed of our riotous ride down Long Island on July 20-21, 1960. At seven forty-five that evening I had my first glimpse of land for thirty-two days, when I saw Block Island in the distance. At nine fifty-eight I saw a faint flashing light, which I took to be Montauk Point, although the map advised against it because the Montauk Point light flashes every ten seconds, and this seemed to be flashing every five seconds. If it were not Montauk, it meant that my dead reckoning was slightly out—about 2½ miles—which could have been due to the tide.
At ten thirty-seven the light bore 013 degrees, and seemed to be flashing at eight seconds. I calculated that it was 19·4 nautical miles away. By my earlier reckoning we should have been 22-2 miles from it, but the tide would account for the difference. At eleven twenty-five I picked up a light flashing every five seconds and bearing 032 degrees, and at eleven forty-two a ten-second light. We were doing pretty well, and I reckoned that we had covered 10·2 nautical miles in 104 minutes, but the wind then dropped and headed us. I was fagged out with all the messing about of the wind.
But I couldn’t go to sleep because the wind was heading me into the land. So I went about and put Gipsy on the other tack, which led right out to sea, towards Bermuda or somewhere. That at least seemed safe enough, so I turned in and went to sleep. I slept soundly for about four hours, and woke with a start to see N. on the ‘tell-tale’compass beside my eye. I jumped out into the cockpit in my pyjamas and there was the land right ahead, about 2 miles off. The wind had veered and swung Gipsy round in a semicircle while I slept, and she was charging straight ashore. I had got on deck just in time. Again, why did I wake up when I did? As with the incident of the steamer on the Grand Banks, some instinct seems to have warned me of danger while I slept. Calculating the results of all those night antics I estimated that Gipsy Moth had sailed about 19½ miles while I had slept.
We were past the Shinnecock Light, and at six-fifty I reported my position to New York Radio, and asked how to pronounce Shinnecock. I heard the Edith G. Whisky Hotel asking for information about Gipsy Moth III.
I boomed out the big genoa, and felt that we were getting on. At eight-fifteen we passed the Moriches Buoy, logging 53⁄4; knots. But that was the speed through the water, and we were covering ground a bit better than this because of a favourable tide. At ten-fifteen we had 47 miles to go, and I called New York Coastguard Radio and gave my position. The wind shifted to ESE., and I boomed out the jib as well as the genoa and gybed, but the wind didn’t hold, and went round to the SW., so I had to get down the genoa and set the staysail with the working jib, and put Gipsy hard on the wind. I was certainly made to work that morning—a list of sails changed and trimmed would make a good PT syllabus. I pushed into the shore and tacked, then tacked again, and I quite forgot about taking a noon sight until twelve-thirty. I worked out my position then, and found that I had still 44 miles to go to reach the Ambrose Light Vessel. I had a point of land to clear, and had some difficulty in clearing it, tacking back and forth, inshore and out again.
In the middle of the afternoon I suddenly saw a great line of poles all wired up and sticking out half a mile from the coast. I found out later that they had big fishing nets suspended from them, presumably to make fishponds. They were not shown on the charts, and I would have charged straight into them if I had not noticed them. It was a bit of luck that I did so, and as it was I had to pinch hard to scrape past without tacking.
I spoke on the radio to John Fairhall in London, and arranged to call again when I got to the Ambrose Light. The batteries were very low, and I f
elt that I must try to put some charge into them, although it was a damned nuisance. I started the engine for charging, but what with one thing and another I didn’t make much of a job of it. First, I connected positive to negative, and I was amazed to see a sudden discharge of 15 amps. I hoped that no great harm was done. Next, the ammeter started charging right off the scale at times. I hunted round, felt the generator, etc., and found that the battery connection was touching other metal as Gipsy Moth rocked. In spite of all this, the batteries survived.
At six twenty-eight I passed a buoy that was 12 miles from the Ambrose Light Vessel. The wind freshened, and I had to take in the staysail. This was a nuisance, but it was too fresh to carry it without slowing down. At eight minutes past eight I could see the Ambrose Light Vessel, and the end of my passage. I held my course for a bit, but I could see that I would have to tack to reach the light vessel. At nine o’clock I made my tack, and headed for it. At nine-seven the Ambrose Light Vessel confirmed that Gipsy Moth III was crossing the line.
Atlantic Adventure Page 8
