Never Fear

by Ian Strathcarron

  He gathereth the waters of the sea together. And lay them up as in the treasure house. Thy way is in the sea. And thy path is the great waters. They that go down to the sea in ships and occupy their business in the great waters, these men see the work of the Lord and His wonders in the deep.

  Tubby had been there at Sheila’s insistence and she herself had been preparing prayer cards. On one side was a reproduction of Dürer’s Praying Hands from 1506 and on the other, two prayers:

  O Lord God, when thou givest to thy servants to endeavour any great matter, grant us also to know that this is not the beginning, but the continuing of the same until it be thoroughly finished, Which yield if the true glory; through him that for the finishing off my work a down his life, our Redeemer, Jesus Christ.

  (Sir Francis Drake, 1540–1590)

  Dürer’s Praying Hands, 1506

  O Thou, Who sittest above the water floods, and stillest the raging of the sea, accept, we beseech Thee, our supplications for this thy servant Francis Chichester, who in yacht Gipsy Moth IV, now and hereafter, shall commit his life unto the perils of the deep. In all his ways, enable him truly and Godly to serve Thee, and by his Christian life to set forth Thy glory throughout the earth. Watch over him on his departure and on his landfall, that no evil befall him nor mischief come nigh to hurt his soul and bring Thy comfort to those who wait his safe homecoming. And so through the waves of this troublesome world, and through all the changes and chances of this mortal life, bring of Thy mercy to the sure Haven of Thine everlasting Kingdom, through Jesus Christ our Lord.

  (The Old Prayer of the Merchant Navy, seventeenth century, adapted)

  It is not surprising that in her autobiography Sheila remarked that Francis’s circumnavigation was ‘a great spiritual adventure, a sort of pilgrimage’.

  The Lord’s weather certainly shone on them down to Plymouth; once there, they tied up at Mashfords Boat Yard for the final preparations. The archive film footage of his departure on 26 August shows it to be surprisingly low key, certainly compared to the great brouhaha that greeted his return there almost exactly nine months later.

  It wasn’t until he had been at sea for a week that Francis felt his voyage had begun. That first week had seen horribly choppy weather and seasickness, as well as crowded shipping lanes and the residue of the anxiety of the preparations and the excitement of the off. On 1 September he was far enough south to enjoy lunch in the cockpit; after lunch he had his first wash and shave for a week. Things were so primitive fifty years ago. Nowadays he would certainly have a water maker and could shower – hot shower too – whenever he liked. Francis’s washing regime depended on emptying a bucket of sea water over himself, lathering up with special salt-water soap (since regular soap does not lather in salt water) and rinsing off with another bucket. It follows that his frequency of washing depended on the latitude: on the Transatlantics and later in the Roaring Forties only when things were getting pretty rank, one imagines; around the Equator several times a day, even if only to keep cool.

  The warm weather and distance from the shoreside anxieties also helped him sleep. A few days later he reported: ‘I had the first good sleep of the voyage, the first good sleep, it seemed, for months. I slept well for four hours without my leg waking me up. Of course this four hours sleep was not the only sleep I got; I would drop off for a few minutes from time to time, and sometimes for an hour or so, usually just about dawn. But four hours at a stretch was a wonderful relief’. He woke up to sluice himself down with some Madeira sea water and a lunch of bread, cheese, salad and beer.

  Francis always enjoyed his tipple on passage, reflecting another change in attitudes over the last fifty years. I can just about remember driving in 1966 – it was probably the year I passed my driving test. Everyone seemed to drink and drive as a matter of course – the main concern being not to spill the drink while driving. I clearly remember driving as a teenager being so drunk I was weaving all over the road. A police car stopped me and the officer asked me if there was anything wrong with the steering. Barely able to stand, I must have mumbled something about everything being in perfect working order and off I drove.

  Nowadays I drink like a fish ashore but not at all on a passage. Don’t sail and drive is as ingrained as don’t drink and drive. Francis enjoyed a beer at lunchtime, a whisky in the evening and a brandy when stressed. In fact a major source of stress was to come in two weeks time, when crossing the Equator. There was unlimited beer in the keg – courtesy of Colonel Whitbread – but no way of getting to it, due to a carbon dioxide leak. Luckily there were other kegs and more carbon dioxide to keep him lubricated along the way.

  The Roaring Forties, best not to broach

  Soon, actually on 9 September, Francis was to have his first taste of one of Gipsy Moth IV’s less wholesome habits: broaching. By now well past the Cape Verde Islands, half-way between the Tropic of Cancer and the Equator, they picked up an unexpectedly decent breeze. He hung two poles off the mast, one off the port side for the jib, one off the starboard side for the genoa, so in effect making one large billowed sail to catch as much wind as possible. Inevitably when these sails both fill it effects the steering and on an inherently well-balanced boat there would be enough time between setting the sails and adjusting the steering; but this boat’s flimsy self-steering mutinied at the slightest slight, swerved to starboard, backing the jib, which, now on the same tack as the genoa, swung the yacht round to port – not just any old port but right round across the wind and, worse, the waves.

  For the casual sailor, too, this broaching is a dangerous situation. It happens when sailing with the wind astern. Let’s say there’s a nice 14-knot breeze astern pushing the yacht along at 7 knots. On board the wind feels like 7 knots. Slowly and imperceptibly the wind increases and an hour later it’s 20 knots, the yacht is sailing at 8 knots and it still only feels like 12 knots’ wind on board. Then the thought occurs: if I was sailing the other way at 5 knots, that 20-knot wind would feel like 25 knots. Time to reduce sail, but how? Sails won’t come down easily when full, so the only way is to turn the yacht into the wind, at some stage turning through the wind full on the beam with the sails full and across the waves. It’s a frightening manoeuvre with a prepared crew waiting for it to happen; alone and unexpectedly even more so. For Francis, though, there was something worse: the realisation that if she broaches this easily in a stiff tropical breeze, how will she fare in the Roaring Forties and beyond?

  A week later, on 17 September, nearly at the Equator, Francis celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday with a one-man party.

  First things first: the great luxury of a freshwater wash. Second things second: he was now fit and ready to open Sheila’s present, ‘a luxurious and most practical suit of silk pyjamas’. Third things third: ‘drinking a bottle of wine given me by Monica Cooper and other members of our map-making firm for a birthday present’.

  As the day wore on a clearly drunken Francis became more lyrical and – I never thought I would write this unFrancis word – sentimental. Firstly his thoughts turned to Sheila: ‘I shed a tear to think of her kindness and love, and all the happiness we have had together since 1937’. Looking out at sea later in the afternoon, he felt an inner glow of satisfaction:

  Here I am, right in the middle of this wonderful venture, just passed by 100 miles the longest six-day run by any singlehander that I know of, and a great feeling of love and goodwill towards my family and friends. What does it matter if they are not here? I would not love them as I do in their absence, or at least I would not be aware of that, which seems to be what matters.

  A wash and brush up in the tropics

  By evening he felt the need to change for dinner. Almost as a good luck charm he carried his green velvet smoking jacket with him on all his voyages. It was a pre-Sheila item, made for him by Scholte of Savile Row, and in six Transatlantics on board Gipsy Moth III it had never come out of the cupboard. Tonight was its night, along with ‘my smart new trousers, clean shirt a
nd black shoes. The only slip-up is that I left my bow tie behind, and have had to use an ordinary black tie’.

  Soon he was back in the cockpit writing his log:

  Well here I am, sitting in the cockpit with a champagne cocktail, and I have just toasted Sheila and Giles with my love. I will turn on some of the music Giles recorded for me. I meant to ask him to get a recording of Sheila and himself talking together, but forgot, which is not surprising. That first voyage home from America with Sheila, just the two of us, keeps on recurring to me, all the little episodes, and the joy and comradeship of it. The same with the third passage back, with Giles. I wonder if I shall ever enjoy anything as much.

  This was followed by a very Francis thought:

  I see that action appears a necessary ingredient for deep feeling.

  But why worry, with my bottle of the best presented by the Royal Western Yacht Club, my dear Coz Tony’s brandy to make the cocktail, a lovely calm evening, hammering along at a quiet 7 knots on, extraordinary pleasure, a calm, nearly flat, sea.

  Later, as all us drunks know, it was time to go from sentimental to maudlin:

  People keep at me about my age. I suppose they think that I can beat age. I am not that foolish. Nobody, I am sure, can be more aware than I am that my time is limited. I don’t think I can escape ageing, but why beef about it?

  Our only purpose in life, if we are able to say such a thing, is to put up the best performance we can – in anything, and only in doing so lies satisfaction in living.

  Is it a mistake to get too fond of people? It tears me to shreds when I think of Sheila and Giles being dead. On the other hand, I keep on thinking of the happiness and pleasure I have had at various times with them, usually when doing something with them.

  This sort of venture that I am now on is a way of life for me. I am a poor thing, incomplete, unfulfilled without it.

  As the day closed on his sixty-fourth year he wrote:

  It is too dark to see any more. Think of me as the sky darkens, music playing, the perfect sail, and still half a bottle of the satyr’s champagne to finish. For all that darkness came too soon, that was a magic evening.

  I had much to celebrate, not only my birthday, but my record run of the previous week. How often does a sailing man sit drinking champagne while his craft glides along at 7 knots?

  By mid-October he was well into the Southern Hemisphere. What comes across reading his log, which thank heavens for us he kept meticulously, is the constant search for speed, the non-stop fight for every cable gained. Let’s say a cruising sailor is barrelling along at a healthy 6 knots in 12 knots of wind. Suddenly you notice the wind has upped to 13 knots. The cruiser will notice, say thanks to the wind gods, and go back to watching the world go by. The racer will burst into action, trim and tweak the sails and see the speed is now 6½ knots. What’s half a knot? Twelve nautical miles a day, 84 miles a week, 1,344 miles in the sixteen weeks from Plymouth to Sydney. So when we read of a typical early morning in Francis’s voyage, in this case just as he was about to head east and join the Roaring Forties, we should not be surprised, if a little exhausted:

  0605. Port pole and sail down and pole housed. Speed 5.4 k.

  0610. Mizzen staysail down. Speed 4.2 k.

  0627. Gybed. Speed 5.1 k on other gybe.

  0643. Mizzen staysail hoisted for opposite gybe. 6k.

  0705. Big genoa rigged on starboard side dropped. I had to drop it because five or six hanks were off the stay. Changed sheet to port-rigged genoa and hoisted that.

  0747. Starboard spinnaker pole rigged and sail rehanked. One damaged hank repaired. Sail hoisted O.K., but difficulty with self-steering. Took some time trimming it before it would hold the ship to course. The load on each tiller line has to be adjusted carefully.

  0807. Mizzen staysail dropped and rehoisted because of twisted tack pennant. Poled-out sail trimmed.

  0810. Gybing completed. I hope a wind change does not require me to do it all again! Now a sun sight, and then I hope for some breakfast, for which I am full (or empty!) ready.

  This is far from untypical; the impression gained from reading the log is racing for every fraction of an advantage all the time, at least the waking time. Sleep was in twenty minutes’ naps and he averaged about five hours sleep in every twenty-four.

  It was in the Roaring Forties that more of Gipsy Moth IV’s faults were laid bare. The broaching problem described above and first experienced in a relatively mild tropical storm was now a constantly recurring disaster waiting to engulf her and him. In the Southern Ocean the winds whipped up bigger seas and against these the constantly suspect self-steering couldn’t cope. He really was at the mercy of events he couldn’t control.

  But there was worse to come. In a really big blow, the skipper will take down all the sails and use just the wind on the mast and rigging to give enough speed to control the yacht. But sailing under ‘bare poles’ Gipsy Moth IV would only lie broadside to the wind and waves, ready to be rolled over at any time. A clearly alarmed Francis wrote:

  I was now convinced that she could not be made to run downwind under bare poles in a seaway. The rudder could not control her without a storm jib on the foremast stay. This was a serious setback; it meant that her slowest speed running downwind in a gale would be 8 knots. I had never even considered that such a thing could happen! Gipsy Moth II had steered easily downwind under bare poles, or even with the wind on the quarter.

  And there was even worse broaching news to come. When Francis pressed on with the wind directly behind him, she wouldn’t surf down the following waves but insisted on broaching across them, now at high speed. As he wrote,

  Broaching-to was the danger that was most dreaded by the clippers. Slewing round, broadside on to a big Southern Ocean storm, they would roll their masts down, and, if the sails went into the water, they were likely to founder, as many did.

  The only solution was to cut down on the amount of sail – but at the cost of speed.

  Things were not much better down below. Leaks had appeared all over the cabin. Francis made a list of them:

  - Doghouse [raised roof of the cabin] post over sink.

  - Doghouse post over Primus

  - Doghouse join about Primus v bad

  - Post above head of quarter berth

  - Cabin hatch lets water in freely, both sides (according to heel)

  - All bolts holding hatch cover

  - Foot of quarter berth under outboard edge of the cockpit seat

  - From deck beside head of portside berth in cabin

  - Starboard forward locker—everything wet through

  - Seacock in cloakroom

  - Both ventilators when closed

  No sooner had he vented his spleen on the leaks than he broke his tooth on a piece of mint-cake. Luckily he didn’t swallow it. His dentist in London, Nigel Forbes, had given him a dental repair kit for just this sort of emergency. Francis took the tooth chip and scraped and cleaned it as per instructions. Next he had to dry it thoroughly, which must have caused him a wry, damp smile with spume flying outside the cabin and water showering in from the innumerable leaks. Undeterred, he hid it away and did what any sensible Englishman, half-toothless, wet through, cold and tired in a Roaring Forties gale, would do: ‘I made myself a cup of tea and turned in’.

  The next day he sat himself down, took out the repair kit and became a self-dentist. Firstly he placed a piece of cotton wool inside his gum to keep his tongue away from the cement. Then he mixed the cement, scooped some onto the tooth and pressed the chip onto it. Five minutes later he relaxed the pressure and looked in the mirror: there was cotton wool in the repair. He decided it was harmless enough and left it there.

  Alas, my tooth-repair did not hold. I tried it out at suppertime, and it was no good – the broken bit simply came off again as soon as I tried to bite. Perhaps the best dentists do not mix cotton wool with their cement. I had another shot at cementing, this time without cotton wool fragments, but the repair was no more
successful. In the end I got a file from my tool kit and filed down the jagged edges of the piece of tooth still in my jaw, and left it at that.

  The Gipsy Moth IV disaster that had been brewing finally came to the boil on Thursday, 15 November. Like many good disasters it provoked a heroic outcome, to my mind Francis’s greatest acts of seamanship and ingenuity. Here he sets the scene:

  I woke to a 40-knot wind – a heavy weight of wind, but no worse than the rough weather over most of the past weeks. The burgee [mast top flag] halliard parted, but that was small beer. At 12.15 I went aft to make what I thought would be a minor repair to the self-steering gear, and found that the steel frame holding the top of the steering blade had broken in half.

  There were two steel plates, one on each side of the top of the blade, to hold the blade and to connect it to the wind vane. Both had fractured. The oar blade was attached to the ship only by a rod used to alter its rake. It was wobbling about in the wake like a dead fish held by a line. I expected it to break away at any moment, and rushed back to the cockpit.

  He knew he had to take all the strain off the self-steering immediately and so with a few quick flicks released the sails to slow the boat down and buy himself some thinking time. He retrieved the broken parts, laid them out on the cockpit floor – and froze with fear. The breaks were much more than mere fractures: they were major structural failures, failures that could only be repaired in a well-equipped yard. Dolefully he reviewed his options. His record-breaking attempt to Sydney was clearly scuppered as he could barely steer himself for more than half the time, and then exhaustedly. He was still 2,750 miles from Sydney. Even reaching there was in doubt, meaningfully. The one hundred days it should have taken would now become two hundred – and would take him into a different sailing season. And then there were water and food: could they be eked out too? Hardly.