Gipsy Moth Circles the World

by Francis Chichester

  I deluded myself. At 06.30 on the morning of the 6th, I was passing Rodondo Island, south of the promontory. This interesting-looking island was only about ½ mile wide and 1,150 feet high, really a big rock. I approached Rodondo to within a few hundred yards. It was exciting and strange to look at the rock and soil after living on the water for so long without a close sight of land. This little island was a tough-looking bit of the earth though, a barren-looking rock, like the crown of a Derby hat rising high out of the sea.

  I kept on the port tack until I reached another island, seven miles east of Rodondo, and then tacked again. But the wind promptly backed further, and once more headed me. By noon I had made good only 62 miles during the day spent rounding Wilson Promontory.

  I had still 449 miles to go to Sydney. I was not only headed, but the wind was merely a light breeze, so that it looked like a mighty long time before I reached Sydney. “It is a sobering thought that with a faint breeze from ahead I could take 8 days to do the 400 miles,” I logged, “but it might be a lot worse.”

  On the 7th I was nearly becalmed in the night. However, I consoled myself with the thought that if I could once get round Gabo Island, the wind direction would give me a fair wind. At 08.00 in the morning I set the big genoa. It drew well, and put up the speed, but it made tricky work for the steering sail. A steamer, the Illowra of Newcastle, gave me a foghorny welcome with much waving, but she also gave me a scare by coming up on to my stern when I was wandering about according to the shifty wind. I logged: “Any nervous tension makes me feel as weak physically as a babe.”

  That noon I was 35 miles off the coast at the Gippsland Lakes District, and ghosting along in light airs when I was caught by some fishing boats full of reporters. I heard the chug of a diesel motor, and peeped out of the cabin to find a boat-load of journalists and cameramen. I answered their hails and one or two questions, but declined when they asked me to pose for photographs. I did not wish to be churlish, and said I would appear if they waited ten minutes. They demurred at this, saying that other boats were on the way out, and would catch up on them. I said I was sorry, but it was that or nothing. The truth was that I had not had a shave, and wished to rush that through, as well as changing into some clothes which would make me look less like a tramp. After not seeing anyone for about ninety days, I was exuberant with friendliness, affable and anxious to please. Yet I dearly wished that no one had found me until I reached Sydney: I should have liked Sydney Heads to be the first land sighted since Europe.

  Later, a trawler brought Lou d’Alpuget from the Sydney Sun, whom I had met at Newport, Rhode Island, when he was covering the America’s Cup races in 1962. He put off in a rubber dinghy, and came near Gipsy Moth, saying, “I’ve brought you a present of some onions and a bottle of whisky.” I said, “I can’t take anything on board. I know from previous experience how strict the Sydney Customs people are, and they will make a frightful fuss if anyone comes near me before I have been cleared.” I remembered from flying through Australia what sticklers the Australian Customs were for rules and regulations. Lou slowly strangled my argument by saying that a tremendous welcome was waiting for me, and the Customs would be waiving all formalities. It seemed churlish to refuse his kind offer, though in fact I was not drinking any whisky on the passage, having taken a dislike to it at this time. And sure enough, the Customs people, when I met them, although most friendly, were anything but pleased that a photograph of me receiving the whisky had been spread abroad.

  Another boat, which I think was a fishing boat, came close so that a journalist from the Melbourne Age could throw me a newspaper. This boat misjudged the distance and hit Gipsy Moth’s stern only a foot or two from the self-steering gear, that is to say, the part still fixed to the stern which had supported the wind vane which I had removed. I tried hard to fend off the boat, and I think did save a lot of damage, but, in doing so, I crushed my elbow slightly. I cursed him, using an extremely rude word of only four letters. I have rarely seen anyone look so shocked—I thought his face went white. He said nothing at all. As his boat drew away, I looked to see what the damage was, and, recovering from my bad temper which I already regretted, I waved to him. I think this man ought to be a diplomat, because instead of reporting what I had said (though really it was quite unprintable), he reported that I had shouted, “You bloody Sunday driver!” Apparently this caused a lot of amusement in Australia, and it certainly amused me, because I had never heard the expression before in my life!

  At noon that day I had had a run of only 59 miles. In the evening I tightened the belts driving the alternator from the auxiliary motor for the last time. There was a great noise and a smell of burning. These two belts were just not up to the job and one had come to bits. By now I had grown quite used to the head-down, feet-up task of adjusting the belts. I had thought it a desperate job the first time I did it in a seaway, with half the nuts having to be tightened up out of sight, by feel only. But one gets used to almost anything.

  The current stored up in the batteries was all I had left, and I told Sydney Radio that from now on I could send or receive nothing but urgent calls. I asked for the frequency of the Gabo Island radio beacon which they gave me, also the Sydney Airport frequency. The Australian radio operators were a most friendly and efficient lot.

  By now I had been beating into a headwind continuously for six days. When at last the wind freed it came light, and then I was being set back by the powerful south-west-going current which sweeps down off the coast of New South Wales. On the afternoon of December 8 I was wondering when I ought to drop the big genoa, when there was a loud resonant twang which made the boat vibrate. I got out as soon as I could to find out what had broken, but for a moment could see nothing wrong. Then I saw a topmast forestay snaking down instead of being taut and straight. I had not noticed it immediately because the genoa was still held up by the luff wire and the halliard. Both the heavy foretopmast stays were down, twisting about on the deck with one half in the water, but the two light stays were still standing. I dropped the genny and recovered it from the water without trouble, also the two wire stays. The tang at the masthead holding these topmast stays had given way at the weld. The question was, had this fracture weakened the other two, lighter, stays? If they gave way, too, I should be deprived of headsails for driving the boat until I rigged a jury topmast stay, and even then the speed would be greatly reduced. I got out my low-power night glasses to look at the masthead, but the rain prevented my seeing anything. Those stays worried me until I made Sydney, but in fact the two remaining light ones held.

  Next evening—the evening of December 9—a strange thing happened. I was at the stem, taking the starboard navigation light to pieces, when I suddenly felt that I was close to the water; that it was almost within reach, whereas the stem should be 5 feet above the water. I looked aft, and the boat seemed to have settled in the water. It must be sinking. I scurried aft, and went below to lift the hatch in the cabin above the bilge. I expected to find it full up with water coming in from some unknown hole with a tremendous rush; I was amazed to find no water at all in the bilge. There was nothing at all the matter. This must have been a trompe l’oeil or delusion like a mirage, but it gave me the sensation of having a boat founder under one’s feet at sea. I hope I may never experience this in reality.

  On the morning of the 10th, Gipsy Moth was becalmed, but in the afternoon a breeze came in from the north-east. I was headed again, but it was a fine sparkling day. I called up Sydney Radio and asked them to give Sheila a message that I had been becalmed since midnight, had only just begun to sail again, and had 102 miles to go.

  In the afternoon a plane found me. I guess the pilot must have acted on the information I had just radioed, because I was at least 50 miles off the coast, and had given no position. He must have flown along the arc with a radius of 102 miles from Sydney. Gipsy Moth was creaming along, well heeled with a mainsail, a mizzen sail, a jib and a staysail set. After passing Gabo Island I set off on a long 8
0-mile tack out to sea, seeking peace from boats and aeroplanes. Unfortunately, the farther off-shore I sailed, the stronger the south-going current, and when I tacked inshore again on December 10 and sighted land in the dusk of the evening, I saw a bright light flashing ahead which I found to be Perpendicular Point, the north head of Jervis Bay. I ought to have been much further north. I felt sentimental at the sight of this light, because it was in this bay that I had pitched down in my Gipsy Moth seaplane in 1931, after completing the first solo crossing of the Tasman Sea from New Zealand to Australia. I had lost the top of my finger in that bay, through a piece of clumsiness on my part when I was hooking my Gipsy Moth to a crane to be lifted to the flight deck of the aircraft-carrier Albatross.

  In spite of the warning on the chart that the south-going current flows up to 4 knots along this section of the Australian coast it was difficult to believe that this could be so, looking at the smooth regular sea. As well as the current, I had against me a NNE wind, dead in my eye looking towards Sydney. Gipsy Moth, hobbyhorsing in the chop, slowed down to 4½ knots, so that I ought not to have been surprised on Sunday (December 11), after completing a tack out to sea and back to Port Kembla, to find that I was actually further south at the end of it than when I started! I had a fit of despair, probably due to my feeling nearly exhausted; I felt that I might be out there tacking against the wind and the current for weeks.

  I had reduced to storm sails in the fresh breeze in order to ease the pounding, but at midnight I decided that I must take a pull and set more sail, to make a big effort to reach Sydney the following day. It took me two hours in my exhausted condition to set the working jib and hoist the mainsail, then unreef the mizzen, and trim up the boat. I had to stop every few minutes for a rest and breath. After I had finished, Gipsy Moth was making only 4 knots to windward, the slamming stopping the boat nearly dead every minute or so. Now I could not get her to sail herself; either she pinched up too close to the wind, or paid off until beam on to it. At 05.40 in the morning I logged: “Been in the cockpit for 70 minutes trying to balance the rudder against tackle and shock cord. I fear Gipsy Moth IV is about as unbalanced or unstable a boat that there could be2

  At 08.30 I tried to start the motor, but the batteries were flat. I also tried to call up on the radio telephone but there was not enough current to make it work. Using navigation lights in the steamer lane the night before had finished off the remainder of the current in the batteries.

  However, I plugged along, sailing as hard as I could. At least it was a lovely day. At 10.00 in the morning I tacked off Cape Baily at the southern headland of Botany Bay. I had only 13½ miles to go to Sydney Heads. A smart blue police launch put out from Botany Bay, spoke to me, and gave me a welcome. I hoisted the White Ensign and the RYS burgee. Slowly I beat up the coast. As the land heated up, a sea breeze caused the wind to veer in direction, and I could nearly lay a course for Sydney, having to tack off-shore only for a mile or two every 5 miles. As I turned Sydney Heads, the wind was free at last, and it freshened up to a strong breeze. Gipsy Moth began showing her paces, and was romping along at times at 8 knots. I could not hold the tiller myself, but had to steer by means of the two tackles, one rigged each side from the tiller to the side of the cockpit. I could have eased the load on the tiller and rudder by paying off the mainsail, but I was now sailing fast with the wind aft of the beam, twisting amongst a fleet of boats of all sizes and kinds. I dared not risk having the boom squared off, for fear of a gybe resulting in a horrible foul-up of gear, followed by possible rammings or collisions. Through the loud hailer I asked

  the model was rigged with a full-sized mainsail the sail stalled and flapped, thereby losing its drive. On the model the mainsail had to be reduced in size for the model to sail successfully. Finally, it was found that the speed and performance of the model were far beyond the makers’expectations. They thought that the hull design and rigging were now the best on the market, and when the model’s performance was compared with full radio control racing yachts, it left those behind for both speed and controllability. My comment on all this is: What a pity that the designers of Gipsy Moth IV did not have time to make a model to sail in the Round Pond before the boat was built! What a lot of trouble, worry and effort this would have saved me, by discovering Gipsy Moth’s vicious faults and curing them before the voyage!

  the Royal Sydney Yacht Squadron launch to let me know when I could round up, and I asked the police launch to clear an area on my port side and astern, where I could round up and stop without being rammed by the big television launches and boats. This they did most efficiently. I rounded up, turned into the wind, and then paid off on the starboard tack, so that all the sails were aback. Gipsy Moth stopped almost dead, the launch came alongside, and the next minute Sheila and Giles were on board. It was a good reunion, and while we cracked a bottle of champagne on deck a police officer took the helm. As I could not start the motor without electricity, Gipsy Moth was taken in tow by the Sydney Yacht Squadron launch.

  Gipsy Moth entered Sydney Heads at 4.30 p.m. on December 12 thus taking 107 days 5½ hours by the calendar or to be exact 106 days 20½ hours actual time after allowing for the change of longitude. The distance sailed was 14,100 miles. This was the total of the point to point noon to noon daily runs.

  According to an Australian newspaper, when I tacked off the coast to the west of Cape Otway on December 3: “An Australian fisherman who set out in his crayfish boat yesterday to take fruit, champagne and beer to the English yachtsman was beaten back by 40 m.p.h, winds and waves estimated at 30 feet. After struggling through the gale for 50 miles, the bottles were smashed, the fruit was pulp and everyone aboard the 50 foot motor boat was seasick.” I wonder where he started from.

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  I learnt the hard way about Gipsy Moth’s sailing characteristics. I was much interested when I learned about the sailing model of Gipsy Moth IV which is being marketed by Hobbies Limited. It is the usual sailing model suitable for racing against other models on the Round Pond and suchlike places. When Hobbies made their first prototype hull to scale, it had “all the appearance of static stability” when the first flotation tests were carried out. When the sails were set and sailing trials began it was found, however, that the keel was not heavy enough, and that the boat tended to heel over on its side, immersing the sails in the water. This is very similar to what occurred when Gipsy Moth IV underwent her first sailing trials. The keel was then redesigned by increasing the depth, the thickness and the weight of the ballast; also the keel was carried aft to the rudder post, just as Warwick Hood prescribed in Sydney. When the model was being tried out under radio control it was found that the rudder of the original design first resisted the control impetus and then went over with a “bang”. Further sailing trials were then carried out on the model, and the performance was improved when the rudder area was reduced, and at the same time the rudder itself was increased in thickness, to line up with the modified keel. It was then found that the mizzen sail “tended to tack over and veer the model off course”, meaning that the mizzen sail was not balanced by the headsails, and consequently brought the model up into the wind. This same fault in Gipsy Moth IV itself was partly overcome in Sydney, when the topmast stays were moved further forward. This balanced the boat on most points of sailing. In the model, the designers reduced the mizzen sail area, which produced the same effect. If

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  9. In Australia

  The clipper route I had chosen to follow did not stop at Melbourne, which was the destination of most clippers, but went on to Sydney. This may require a little explanation, for Melbourne is a much easier landfall, it is 500 miles nearer Plymouth, and the passage to Sydney after passing Melbourne calls for tricky navigation through the Bass Strait, and then the need to keep inshore along the coast of New South Wales to avoid that fierce south-going current that I described in the last chapter. This is always liable to be hard going for a sailing ship, as it was for me, because of
variable winds, and inshore currents, with the constant risk of being pushed into a bay, or of being becalmed and set on shore by a current.

  Of course many sailing ships went to Sydney because their trade, mostly passengers or general cargo, took them there. As far as racing against the clipper times was concerned, I could have ended this first part of the voyage at Melbourne, and in some ways it would have been logical to do so. At noon on December 4, the ninety-ninth day of my passage, I was only 118 miles from Melbourne. I could have turned downwind and easily run into Melbourne within the 100 days from Plymouth. But I had personal reasons for feeling that I had to go to Sydney. Four times I have found my way to Sydney, each time on some exciting, romantic venture. I described this in Along the Clipper Way:

  “On my first visit I steamed into the magnificent harbour from New Zealand; I was a blighted swain who had jumped on board the steamer in Wellington, New Zealand, because of an ice-blooded, heartless and haughty maiden travelling in the ship to Sydney. Though I had the usual profound belief that it was impossible, my bleeding heart survived this ordeal. My next visit was when I flew my Gipsy I Moth plane there to complete the second solo flight made from England to Australia. That was in January 1930. I was escorted in by a flight of planes and was so agitated at the sight of all the crowds on Mascot Aerodrome that I landed like a rabbit lolloping over a rough meadow. It was all a great thrill—with the uproarious, friendly Sydney welcome—which must surely be unique.