I had been worried when John increased the length of the design to 54 feet, because for one thing the bigger the boat the more sail is required in light airs, and therefore the more work is required of the singlehander in setting sails and taking them down again. John was soothing and countered my opinion by saying two things: firstly that this boat would be so light that only a small sail area would be required to drive it, and secondly that it was so big that it would be able to carry its sails much longer in the changing wind than would a smaller boat. I want to make it clear that the original design for Gipsy Moth IV had a displacement of 8 tons. When John pushed the size up, increasing the length to 54 feet, I reasserted that 9 tons (Thames Measurement) was the optimum size for a singlehander to get most efficiency, and most speed. When John asserted so positively that this boat would be so easy to handle, and that the extra size would give me greater speed because it would push up the theoretical maximum speed, I raised my limit to 9 tons displacement. The boat as finally designed was of 9½ tons displacement, which was already half a ton over my maximum figure. When the extra ballast had been added to the keel the displacement ended up at 11½ tons—no less than 18 tons Thames Measurement! The latter was double the weight limit I had intended from the beginning, and the displacement was no less than 37½ per cent more than the final weight I had agreed to. The sail area could not be increased any more, because each sail was already up to the maximum which I could handle efficiently. Therefore, I was now going to have a boat greatly undercanvassed in light airs; also she would need all sail setting in much less wind than if the hull had been of the size I really wanted. John’s saying that she would carry her sail much longer than a small hull was true in a way, but drew attention away from the two facts which really concerned me—first, that because of the extra size I should have to set all sail much sooner, and secondly, that in a gale all the ordinary sail has to be stripped off to make way for storm sails, and I should still have all the work to do whether it was done sooner or later. With the bigger hull there would be more sails to strip off, and therefore more work to do.
I waited excitedly to see what speed I could get out of her in the Solent. At first I was disappointed, because she seemed slower than Gipsy Moth III in light airs, but she gave me a thrill when the breeze piped up to 24 knots and she reeled off 9 knots. This is certainly a thrilling speed for a singlehander. But there were two factors which I could well have taken more notice of; one was that she had to have all plain sails set to get up this speed in a 24-knot breeze, which meant that she would be undercanvassed with all plain sails in a lesser wind; and the other was that she heeled 30 to 40°. Being in the cockpit when sailing in the Solent one pays no attention to a heel of 35 °—it just adds to the thrill of fast sailing. When it comes to working below at this angle of heel, it is a very different matter; and when the sailing is in big seas instead of the smooth waters of the Solent, an initial heel of 30 to 40° is unsafe. A big wave can push it over another 40 °—and then what?
As speed was to be such an immensely important factor in my voyage, let me state some basic facts about it. Any kind of hull should be able to attain a speed (in knots) equal to 1.3 times the square root of the waterline length (in feet). For example, Joshua Slocum’s Spray in the 1890s could attain a speed of 8 or 9 knots, though her hull shape would give modern yacht-designers the horrors. Her stem and stern were nearly up and down, so that her waterline length and overall length were nearly the same. Whatever the modern designer’s views on Spray, the fact remains that she not only made fast passages—the 1,200 miles Slocum sailed in eight days in 1897 stood as a singlehanded record for seventy years, until about two years ago—but she was also a splendid seaworthy boat. There is no mention in any of Slocum’s writings of her ever having broached to, and I am sure he would have mentioned this if it had happened.
A hull designed solely for speed, like a crack Twelve Metre, can have a maximum speed of 1.5 times the square root of the water line length. An off-shore racing yacht by a top designer will have a maximum between the two. The reason why the maximum speed is a function of the waterline length derives from the wave-formation of a yacht going at speed. A shorter yacht has to start coming up the face of the wave sooner than a longer yacht would do. And, of course, as soon as she starts climbing, her speed must stop increasing. The sheer radical speed of Gipsy Moth IV is, therefore, the square root of 38½ feet multiplied by 1.3 at its worst, or 1.4 at its best; that is, 8.06 knots, or 1936 miles per day, or 8.687 knots and 208½ miles per day. While Gipsy Moth IV was building I had hoped from what the designer had said that the theoretical maximum speed would be greatly exceeded in a moderate breeze, say 15 knots, at which most sailing is done, but now this hope was fading. I asked Peter Nicholson, one of the best off-shore helmsmen in the world, to come out one day. I thoroughly enjoyed watching his helmsmanship and particularly how close to the wind he could sail the boat. The breeze freshened to over 20 knots when Peter was aboard and I was convinced that I had been getting the maximum out of the boat for that wind. I was sorry it was not a light breeze; I should like to have seen him at work in light airs, to check whether the boat was slow then or if I was sailing her badly.
By now I had been planning this project for three years, and all the early part of 1966 I spent preparing charts and navigation, testing instruments, etc. Although I had planned to have only one port of call, I must be prepared to go to the nearest port anywhere along the route in case of a bad accident, such as being dismasted. I wanted Great Circle charts, and Hydrographic charts, showing the average winds and currents for the months of the year when I would be passing through the area. I had to get a dozen Admiralty Pilots, the sailing directions for the lands I was passing, and the seas that I should be sailing through, the Admiralty Manual giving radio beacon details all around the world, and another volume giving the time signals.
One of the reasons why I wanted speed was that whereas I wished to reach Sydney at the beginning of December, I did not want to be at the Cape of Good Hope one week earlier than necessary, because it would be early spring down there at the beginning of September, when I could expect very rough conditions. I wanted to leave Sydney by the end of December so as to round the Horn before the end of February. This meant a fast turn-round at Sydney. I reckoned that I should never be able to refit there in a month by myself. My only hope of getting away quickly would be to have Sheila and Giles out there to help me. I can’t believe that there is a more hospitable city in the world than Sydney, and I reckoned that the social pressures and the amount of work to be done on the boat, with all the planning for the second passage, would amount to a terrific load for anyone in a great hurry. To finance all this I agreed to radio an account of the voyage, twice a week, once to the Sunday Times, once to The Guardian. This required preparation, not only the installation of the Marconi Kestrel radio telephone set and the provision of suitable aerials, but also the organisation of radio contacts with all the different countries along the route. This was tackled with great efficiency by George Gardiner of the Marconi Company.
In order to get these various things rolling I was forced to disclose my plans much though I disliked doing so. A press conference was arranged for March 22. The night before this I was asleep when the telephone rang. Sheila said, “Don’t answer it,” but unfortunately I did. It was Tony, who said, “The cost of the boat has amounted to 50 per cent more than I understood it was going to be. Can you find the extra money?” I felt an immense depression; my spirits seemed to sink to nothing. It was an almost intolerable burden since I was in the thick of preparations, and I had given no thought at all to the finance. It was a big sum for me to find too; considerably more than the originally-planned Gipsy Moth IV would have cost.
On top of that I had an even worse blow. The brass knob at the end of one of the curtain-pulling cords in our drawing room had swung back, hitting Sheila in the eye and bursting a small blood vessel at the back of her eye. The doctor said that in the circumst
ances it was serious, and that she must go to bed for a complete rest straight away, and certainly not attend the press conference. Sheila had been working far too hard for months, preparing the press release for this venture, helping to run our map publishing business of which she is a director, and working on the layout of the boat’s interior and the provisioning for the voyage, while I was concentrating on the preparations for the voyage itself. Life seemed at low ebb. I was deeply worried about Sheila, worried and annoyed at having to set to at this stage to find so much extra money, crippled in one leg, and disappointed in the boat. I suddenly realised how much I should miss Sheila at the press conference, and I realised, too, how much I had leaned on her strength and her flair for handling anything in the nature of public relations. However, I was committed to the project, and it must go on.
Most of the summer months of 1966, before I sailed at the end of August, which ought to have been spent in deep sea trials of Gipsy Moth IV, had to be used, instead, for difficult business dealings. First of all, Colonel Whitbread, of Whitbread’s the brewers, came to my rescue with a contribution towards the cost of the boat. He is an amazing man; I suppose that everyone knows him as one of the business tycoons of Britain, but besides that he has a remarkable diversity of sporting skills. The ones that interest me most are that he learned to fly in the same year as I did (1929), and still pilots his own plane (which I don’t), and that he is a keen yachtsman. His contribution was made without any paper work or strings attached to it, a generous gesture which made me keen to repay it tenfold. Several other firms supplied gear for the boat or cash towards the building cost. The International Wool Secretariat paid for a one-seventh share of the boat.
When we started building, my cousin Tony had insisted that no firms should supply free gear or goods in return for advertisement. However, to raise the money we were still short of, I had to approach all the suppliers, and ask if they would contribute in return for advertisement. Most firms refused, but some rallied round; for instance Ian Proctor presented me with a special discount for the masts and spars; John Shaw, as before with Gipsy Moth III, made up and gave me the stainless steel rigging wire which never failed me; ICI Fibres presented me with cordage and deck wear. All these business dealings not only caused me immense worry but also prevented me from carrying out the offshore sailing and the much-needed sailing-drill which I had planned. As a result it was not till I was on the ocean that I discovered Gipsy Moth IV’s three major vices which spoiled my plan for the project and nearly wrecked the voyage.
3. The “Off” at Last
In spite of my anxiety about Sheila, the pain in my own leg, incessant worry over money to pay for Gipsy Moth IV, and realisation that I had not got the boat I wanted, I kept going. The project really did seem a great one, worthy of framing and panache. I would start from Tower Pier, London, and sail down to Plymouth with my family as crew, attempt to sail round the world with only one stop, and then sail back from Plymouth to the Tower of London. The clippers used to take a tug down the Thames, perhaps as far as South Foreland, and they might carry a pilot as far as the Lizard, so that my having a crew aboard as far as Plymouth would not be departing from traditional clipper practice. I had intended to walk down from my house in St James’s to the yacht, and then walk back home again when I completed the voyage. Unfortunately, my damaged leg wouldn’t let me walk on it, so that particular plan had to be abandoned.
For the rest, the essential things somehow got done, and preparations went ahead. The press conference was well received, and I was heartened by the immense fund of goodwill that ordinary people up and down the country seemed to feel for me in my venture.
I gave all the time I could to sailing trials of Gipsy Moth in the Solent, and although there were so many things about her that worried me—as they were to worry me throughout the voyage—gradually I worked her up and improved her performance. I discovered one reason for what I felt was Gipsy Moth IV’s crankiness—her mainmast, which was supposed to be only 47 pounds heavier than the mast of Gipsy Moth III, had turned out to be 162 pounds heavier.
There were things that comforted me, too. A friend came with me on one sail to calibrate instruments, and I was just starting a short sleep when he rammed a big light buoy head on. The only damage was that the stem was bashed in to a depth of about 1 inch, about 12 inches above water level. It was amazing how well the construction stood the shock. My friend was very depressed and apologetic, but I was relieved at the strength of the yacht’s construction. This incident made me worry rather less about icebergs!
Looking back to my journal over those days, however, I find most of the entries reflecting pain or worry of one sort or another. I do not wish to weary anyone with an account of my miseries, but the troubles I had then were germane to the voyage. I will sum up with a few extracts from my journal:
“May 10. Been hot-packing thigh. Very painful at times. Twenty-three days since I slipped on the saloon skylight.
“May 14. This has been a very depressing period, and I seem to get more miserable, not less. First, the worry about Sheila. Her living an invalid’s life for three weeks is depressing, and on top I have all the worry of the finance troubles with Gipsy Moth IV. I can still barely walk. Several of my toes are out of control. I have aches like sciatica nearly all the time, with bad nights, unable to sleep for more than 1½ hours without waking to bad pain.
“May 19. F + D = fatigue breeds despair. Day trip to Gosport fatiguing—4½ hours travelling to and fro by train, 5 hours sailing, 1½ hours tidying up, added to strain of wonky leg.
“May 28. Clear sky after dawn—it promises a lovely day. Chores yesterday. Rigged anchor tripping line and buoy, washed more paint and moved the mizzen staysail halliard which was in a dangerous place, where I would grab it in place of a taut shroud and could easily go overboard.
“June 4. Everyone says I am not to worry, but it all ends in worry and work for me each time I seem to be getting ahead with my sailing trials. I suppose we shall sort it all out. On the bright side, a bound but uncorrected copy of my Along the Clipper Way arrived, and I was thrilled to read Masefield’s race up Channel in Bird of Dawning again. What a superb artist!
“June 5. Today was exhilarating. I feel cheered up. A romping sail in a fresh wind put fresh heart into me, killed my depression and sense of futile failure, restored my confidence and optimism. It was badly needed.
“June 29. Pile of agenda not lessening. Time shortening.
“July 7. Two-day fast to get rid of the acid and fatigue due to all the financial scraping and worry. Thank heaven that Whitbread’s have come to my help.
“July 11. Got through a tremendous amount today with post-fast energy. What I worry and get sad about is Sheila’s present state. She seems so fragile.”
That is enough. We lived through that period, although there were times when financial troubles seemed so overwhelming that I wondered whether Camper and Nicholson would release the boat to let me start at all. In the end, the finance was sorted out somehow. On August 12, with Sheila, Giles and Commander Erroll Bruce for crew we sailed the yacht to London for my start from Tower Pier, and the Reverend “Tubby” Clayton (of Toc H) held a service of blessing on board Gipsy Moth IV. We had a good passage back to Plymouth, where Gipsy Moth IV lay to a mooring off Mashford’s Yard at Cremyll, for a thousand and one last-minute jobs to be done. The time of departure was drawing very near. It was good to be at Mashford’s again, the starting point of all my singlehanded ocean sailing.
Sheila and Giles helped me to sail Gipsy Moth IV from the mooring at Mashford’s to the Royal Western Yacht Club’s normal starting line off Plymouth Hoe. I had the usual sinking feeling before a race. Sid Mashford in his launch took off Sheila and Giles, and after that I was alone. I ought, I suppose, to have experienced a sense of thankfulness, or at least relief, that here I was after all the years of planning, actually at sea with my great adventure before me, but the truth is that I was kept so rushed manoeuvring the yacht that
I did not have much time for feeling of any sort at all. I was tacking to and fro behind the starting line, waiting for the eleven o’clock gun; and short-tacking a 53-foot boat keeps a one-man crew fully occupied. However, I managed it without too great an effort. I had a jib and the mainsail set, and by timing the tack right, letting go the jib sheet at the right moment, and hauling it in the other side while steering with my backside against the tiller, I could avoid the grind of using a winch.
I crossed the line as the gun fired and was off on my 14,000-mile sail. It was a sparkling, sunny morning and I added my big staysail and the mizzen as I made my way out of Plymouth Sound. Eighty-eight minutes after the start, Eddystone Lighthouse was abeam, and I had been making good 7¾ knots. I turned in for a short sleep, and immediately got a dollop of sea on to my shoulder in the bunk from one of the ventilators. I cursed it heartily.
Gipsy Moth Circles the World Page 3
