That day I found out why the port side pole had jammed in the mast track. I noticed that the track had been twisted and pulled away from the mast for a foot or so. The cracks I had heard must have been the rivets popping, and not the pole cracking as I thought at the time. I was still using this pole, but taking care not to overload it, and watching it like a cat watching a mouse, for fear that it would bend more, or double up completely. “If this track goes,” I logged, “I shall be poorly placed, because I did not bring any metal repair tools or gear. The tracks for these poles should have been fitted further abeam the mast, to take the thrust from them against the mast, instead of tangential to it.”
In the afternoon I made various improvements for better gear-handling. Success in singlehanded sailing depends on easy gear-handling, and being able to keep the boat in control all the time. Some of the improvements I made were to fit blocks, so that the mizzen boom vangs could be led into the cockpit; blocks amidships for leading the after-guys of the poles back to the mast, where I fitted two camcleats to the deck on each side of the mast to take the boom guys. This arrangement enabled me to hoist a boom while all the time keeping control of it from where I stood at the mast. All the same it was quite a feat of juggling, because I had to control, at the same time, the foreguy, the aft-guy, the topping lift, the uphaul of the heel of the pole, and the downhaul of the pole heel, also the outhaul of the clew of the sail to the end of the pole and the sheet from the cockpit to the clew. (As the pole foreguy is paid out, for instance, the aft-guy needs taking in the same amount.) I have only myself to blame for the frightful number of operations involved in a gybe, for I designed the rig and layout of these poles myself. When I am working with normal efficiency, they do enable me to hoist and keep control of the two big running sails. Also, with this gear, I can drop the sails without much trouble if hit suddenly by a squall, whereas if I set a spinnaker of the same size as these two running sails (1,200 square feet) as is the usual practice in a racing boat in off-shore races, I should soon be in big trouble. Even yachts with big full crews usually get into trouble with their spinnakers.
In spite of all this fine talk about improvement, I got landed in a super-shemozzle that night. I had finished a gybe, and was looking forward to a peaceful noggin of brandy in the cabin, when along came a squall. It was not a severe one, but with more than 1,600 square feet of sail set, Gipsy Moth began to get out of control—that is to say, the self-steering gear could not hold her on course, and I could not take the helm as well as drop the sails. It was all very well galloping along at 9 knots, but no good if this was in the wrong direction! So I decided to drop the big genny which was poled out to starboard. I stupidly overlooked a step in my standard drill—a bad slip-up while working in a near gale-force wind. I let go the halliard and brought the luff of the sail down the topmast stay, and now had the bunt of the sail partly muzzled by my body and arms right in the stem of the boat inside the pulpit. The mistake I made was that I had left the running part of the clew outhaul cleated up at the mast, instead of bringing it forward with me to the pulpit. I had to leave the pulpit and let go the bunt of the sail, so that I could release this outhaul. The clew and foot of the sail stretched 20 feet outboard to the end of the pole, and this part of the sail filled out with wind to the shape of a banana, and began flogging madly up and down in the near-gale. Then I made a second blunder. I should have robbed a furled headsail near by of its sail tie, and used this to secure to the pulpit as much of the big genny as I had managed to smother in my arms. But the wind was freshening fast, the situation was getting serious, and I decided that the best thing to do was to dash for the mast and slack away the outhaul with a run. Before I got back to the pulpit, the sail had caught the wind, bellied out, and blown round to the leeward side of the stem. That sail is a piece of Terylene the size of a room 20 feet by 30 feet, and once it gets out of control it is a really tough proposition for a singlehander. When it was round to the leeward side of the fast-moving stem, the water caught it, and my heart sank with it as it disappeared under the stem and the ship sailed over it. My lovely sail, so essential to this project, ridden under the keel! I must slow up the ship as soon as possible, but first I had to slack away any ropes holding the sail to the windward side of the boat. The strain on all this gear from a huge bag of Terylene under water, in a speed of 8 to 9 knots, must have been terrific. I let the outhaul fly. The rope disappeared into the sea like a thin snake. I then let go the foreguy to the pole; this allowed the sheet from the cockpit to the clew of the sail to pass under the keel. Now, the sail under water was held only by the hanks fastening it to the forestay. It should be streaming freely in the water, and no more harm should happen to it.
I dropped the big genny on the leeward side, then the mainsail, and lastly the mizzen and, with the boat nearly stopped, I first housed the pole on deck, and then began hauling the sail inboard foot by foot until it would come no farther. I was puzzled by this until I realised that the sheet was still fast to the winch in the cockpit on the starboard side, and was holding the clew under the keel to the weather side of the ship. I let go of the sheet, and got the rest of the sail inboard. This may sound simple enough, but it was no fun at the time. It was dark and blowing hard, and it was all hard work. I was immensely pleased to find later that though both sail and sheet had plenty of red anti-fouling paint on them from the keel, the sail was intact. But I was depressed at losing a night’s sailing. The boat was too big, no doubt of it. I felt that I had had to put out a much bigger physical effort than I thought I was normally good for. I went below and had my brandy at last, but I had no appetite at all, although I had had only a sandwich for lunch. However, I could not bear to lose the good wind, so I donned my lifeline again and hoisted the big port-side genoa once more. The yacht began moving, and I went below to try and get some sleep.
But my leg ached too much to sleep. The rolling was bad without the mainsail, so I decided to have another go. I went on deck yet again, and rehoisted the mainsail. I finished the whole operation at 14 minutes before midnight. The giant shemozzle itself had lasted 3¼ hours. There was a time when I had thought sailing would be no good to me because it provided no physical effort and exercise! At that moment, that seemed a pretty good joke.
At noon on September 8, I had been on a latitude level with the westernmost of the Canary Isles, but after my experience of Madeira I had given them a good berth of 30 miles. By September 9 I was well past them, and headed for the Cape Verde Islands, determined to pass well to windward of them, too. The sea here gave a curious impression of being like a desert, a Sahara, lifeless and empty, instead of teeming with fish and bird life as I believed it to be. The water was pale blue-black, like diluted blue-black ink.
That night it was dark at 19.30—I was getting near the tropics. Two hours after midnight I logged that it was a very black night in spite of some stars visible. “Lovely quiet sailing but she needs that mizzen staysail for speed. I can hardly drag my feet along for fatigue, so will sit tight a while yet.” That night I had twice as much sleep as on any previous night and figured that another such night would set me on my feet again. The pain in my leg had nearly gone. Noon brought the end of my second week at sea. I was disappointed in the week’s run, only 886 miles, making an average so far of 128.9 miles per day.
After noon I poled out a 300-foot jib for the first time. It took a lot of adjusting of guys, lifts, outhaul, etc., the object being to fill the leeward big genoa with wind. Here I had my first experience of Gipsy Moth’s broaching-to. She was running downwind, with the wind on the quarter, when two waves swung the stern round and brought her up head to wind. After that the poled-out jib was aback, and the self-steering gear could not bring the boat under control again; no wonder, because it took a big effort from me with my foot on the tiller and my back to the side of the cockpit to bring the boat back on to her original heading. However, it was the first time that I had seen the speedometer needle come against its stop on the dial which was a
t 10 knots. Three and a half hours later I recorded: “Great sailing in the sunlight and I love to see that needle come against the stop at 10 knots!”
On September 10 I made up and cooked a nut roast for dinner, but it wasn’t a great success; I think the nuts were too old, and perhaps a little sour. It was a great thrill to be in the cockpit, the first time that I had been consistently rising to 10 knots in a small boat. The course was dead downwind. Gipsy Moth averaged 7 3/8; knots for 8 hours.
At midnight that night I logged:
“Roughish going,” and 1½ hours later my log read, “Most puzzling: I was woken by a shattering shock, and got the impression that things were jumping about in the cabin due to it. I thought of what could have caused it, the mast broken, the main boom adrift and banging the cabin, a pole come down from aloft. I dressed in full war paint—shorts, lifeline, harness and cap—and went on deck to find out the worst. I could see nothing wrong at all. I inspected everything right up to the stem. I believe Gipsy Moth must have sailed full tilt into a whale, and got away with it. Very fortunately there was no more water in the bilge. I suppose it could have been a dream or a nightmare.”
An hour and a half later I logged: “The wind has eased, but the boat seems to be going very fast; looking over the side it is hard to focus on the white water rushing past. It is like looking out of the window of a train at things a few feet away rushing past.”
On September 11 I sailed into the tropics, and had a good day’s run of 194 miles, the best so far of the passage. It was very hot, 82 ° in the shade, and later, in the dark, it was awe-inspiring on the foredeck when doing 10 knots; it gave the impression of a runaway horse. The white water rushing past was shot with brilliant dots of phosphorescence. But it was difficult to sleep with the rough riding. Two hours after midnight (September 12) I was again worrying about Gipsy Moth’s tendency to broach to. I logged:
“I got worried about Gipsy Moth’s griping up to windward after a wave had slewed her stern to leeward. There is the strain on the pole gear as the poled-out jib is taken aback, a big strain on the self-steering gear fighting to get the boat back on course, and then there is the risk of the mainsail’s doing a Chinese gybe [that is when the top of the sail is twisted over on the starboard gybe while the bottom half of the sail is still on the port gybe] when swinging the head back on to the old course.”
I dropped the mizzen sail, which I thought might be a big factor in causing the boat to broach to. At 03.15 that early morning, I logged: “Rough riding. I wish I could sleep the first part of the night. It is good time wasted too, because I need to use the daytime to make up sleep shortage. Thank heaven I am not beating into this wind instead of running before it!”
I had a change of diet for breakfast later that morning—fresh flying fish. I found one in the cockpit, another in the sail net amidships, and two more on the foredeck. They were delicious fried in butter, tasting somewhat like a herring with a flavour of mackerel.
By noon of September 12 the day’s run was another good one, 174 miles. I logged:
“What’s to do first? Wash up, shave and wash, set the mizzen, take the sun shots, work up the dead reckoning, or prepare tonight’s radio transmission? The answer—you will have guessed—I had a snooze. After all, I have just finished a meal of four flying fish and four potatoes and it is 82° Fahrenheit in the shade.”
To show how rough the going was, it took me 28 minutes to get 6 sextant shots of the sun that day. I reckoned that I was moving out of the south-west-going Canary Current into the west-going North Equatorial Current, and was well in the middle of the north-east Trade Wind belt. I didn’t have any luck calling up London that night, but managed to get through the following night and radioed a report to John Fairhall of The Guardian.
An hour after midnight on September 14 a flying fish landed on board at the sail bags under the nets amidships while I was on deck there, though I did not see it actually alight. I returned it alive and kicking to the deep, which must have been a surprise for it. At 08.42 in the morning I logged: “I have just realised that all last night I had not a twitch of pain from my leg. How wonderful, and yet how ungrateful that I should nearly let this pass unnoticed, when it changes my present life immensely.” I collected ten flying fish round the deck that morning. I was sorry that I could not return them alive like the one in the night, and since I could not save them I breakfasted off them. (One flying fish, cooked, is not very big.)
4. My Sixty-Fifth Birthday Party
September 17 brought my 65th birthday. I had a big time with a fresh-water wash, followed by opening Sheila’s birthday present, a luxurious and most practical suit of silk pyjamas. I shed a tear to think of her kindness and love, and all the happiness we have had together since 1937. I started celebrating my birthday by drinking a bottle of wine given me by Monica Cooper and other members of our map-making firm for a birthday present. That was at lunch time. In the evening I wrote in my log:
“Well here I am, sitting in the cockpit with a champagne cocktail, and I have just toasted Sheila and Giles with my love. Full rig, smoking, smart new trousers, black shoes, etc. The only slip-up is that I left my bow-tie behind, and have had to use an ordinary black tie. I have carried this ‘smoking’ (my green velvet designed and built by Scholte before I met Sheila in 1937) six times in Gipsy Moth III across the Atlantic, intending to dine in state one night, but this is the first time I have worn it in a Gipsy Moth. No dining in state, either. I don’t get hungry in these 85° F heats until the middle of the night, or early morning. But why worry, with my bottle of the best presented by my own Yacht Club, the Royal Western Yacht Club, by that old satyr Terence (I always expect him to pull a pipe from some hidden pocket and start serenading Cupid), my dear Coz’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. 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, because the amount of thinking and planning for the voyage was unbelievable. A thousand items to remember or see to.
“This must be one of the greatest nights of my life—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.
“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. 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. I see that action appears a necessary ingredient for deep feeling. 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.
“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.
“Darkness came, alas, a bit too quickly—sudden nightfall is one of the bad features of the tropics. I love those long northern twilights.”
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
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of the previous week. How often does a sailing man sit drinking champagne while his craft glides along at 7 knots? The horizon looked a clean straight line, and the departing sun suffused some clouds with an orange glow. The moon was on its back above the sun’s exit. That, I think, was about the first time on the voyage that I was at all sentimental—up to then it seemed to have been all technics and worry. It seems odd that it should take about three weeks of a voyage before one can begin to enjoy it, but so it is, or seemed so then to me.
I could have done without a celebration hangover at 2 a.m., when a sharp squall of wind laid Gipsy Moth over on her side. I staggered out of my bunk with difficulty, as I was on the lee side of the boat and was still pretty full of brandy and bonhomie. I started looking for clothes, getting the best footholds I could at the side of the boat and on the bunk, but with a shot of panic in my vitals I realised that this was a serious emergency; there was no time for clothes. I grabbed a lifeline harness and put that on as I climbed into the cockpit. Gipsy Moth was pressed over on her side, with the sails dipping in the water and out of control of the self-steering gear. No wonder at that, because after I had released the self-steering gear from the tiller I could not move the tiller even with a tiller line to help. The situation was serious, because if she went over further and the sails got completely below the water, the companion being wide open, the water could easily rush in there and the boat founder. Gipsy Moth was carrying every square foot of sail I had been able to set. I let go the mizzen staysail (350 square feet) with a run, and hauled it into the cockpit, which it half filled, until I could get at the mainsheet and pay off the main boom. Slowly the boat righted, and I was able to turn her downwind and engage the self-steering gear again to control her. This enabled me to get forward to drop the big 600-square-foot genoa. That left the staysail genoa and the mainsail. After the squall eased I waited a few minutes because of the heavy rain, and by 03.17 I had added the big jib and the mizzen. I was tempted to reset the mizzen staysail, but did not want to be turned out again that night for another shemozzle with the boat out of control, so left it down. As I turned in again I made a note that I must devise a better arrangement for the tiller lines.
Gipsy Moth Circles the World Page 5
