Noon on February 25 finished my fourth week at sea. With a week’s run of 1,058 miles Gipsy Moth was beginning to make a proper speed at last. I had sailed 3,350 miles from Sydney and by midnight was half way to the Horn.
The night of February 26 was a particularly dirty one, with freshes or squalls up to 40 knots. I sailed under a reduced rig of staysail genoa and working jib, which seemed to meet the circumstances, although the going was rugged at times with heeling. But it was not bumpy, thank God. There was a lull in the early morning, and I set the trysail, wondering as I did so whether it ought to have been the main. However, I distrusted the lull, and decided to bide a while before hoisting the main, for time after time when I had set the main I would have done better to keep to the trysail. It was cold on deck, and below, and I dug out my winter woollies.
This was a grey day, with only a few vistas of pale blue sky, and a watery sun occasionally. It was as well that I had kept to the trysail, for the wind freshened as the day wore on, and by afternoon a storm was getting up fast, with a rapidly falling barometer. I dropped the jib and the trysail, leaving the genoa staysail, but wondering if I ought to change that down while the light was good and before the gale grew worse.
I had to turn out in the night. Gipsy Moth was making heavy weather of it, with the genoa staysail up and the wind going up to the limit of 60 knots on the recorder; with a sailing speed of 6 knots downwind, this meant a wind of at least 66 knots. I dropped the genoa staysail. In doing so I lost grip of the halliard tail which blew out to leeward, and it stayed out like a stick in the air. I could only hope that it would suitably jam when the wind dropped so that I could recover it.
I made two mistakes over this operation. Firstly, I should never have left the fore-triangle without a sail. I ought to have set the spitfire (reefed storm jib) when it showed signs of blowing up in the afternoon. I thought that the way on the yacht would keep her sailing downwind under bare poles, but as soon as I dropped the staysail, she broached to, and lay ahull. Secondly, if I did leave the yacht bald-headed I ought first to disconnect the self-steering vane so that it would not be forced when the yacht broached to and the heading suddenly changed by 90 ° in a wind of more than 60 knots.
I was very hungry when I got below after my struggle in the night, and gave myself some baked beans on toast, with a mug of chocolate. I was still hungry after that, but didn’t fancy any of the available foods. A wave washed over the deck and fairly deluged the galley floor through the closed hatch. I caught some of it at the Primus, but luckily not much. It’s odd how relative things are! While I was mopping up in the galley I thought that it had suddenly fallen flat calm—the wind had certainly decreased momentarily, but it was still blowing at 35 knots! It was soon gusting at 55 knots again, but in the lulls (relative lulls, that is) there was almost silence. It was very queer.
In the morning I recovered the staysail halliard. The end of the rope tail had caught between the foretopmast stay, the spitfire luff, and a hank, and by standing on the pulpit I could just reach it. Relieved at recovering the halliard, I considered more sail, but decided that another sail was not needed if I could unreef the spitfire. I dropped it low enough for me to pull the reefing points undone, then hoisted it—and found that I had blundered. I had not resheeted to the bottom clew, so the part which had been reefed was now flapping. I gybed before the next move, which was to lower the storm jib again, and fasten the staysail sheets to the bottom clew. All this took time, and there was no let-up in the wind, which was still blowing around Force 9 and, if anything, increasing. So I refurled the storm staysail which I had been preparing to hoist. Then I pumped the bilge, clearing it with 73 strokes, which was not bad considering all the seas which had come on board. Next I examined the self-steering gear. The bolt and the pin attaching the vane to the shaft were wearing big holes in the wood. I decided that I must renew the bolt and pin, but feared that the woodwork would eventually give way, and could not see how to prevent this. I hoped it would last out somehow. The seas were big and rough, looking like the Cape Horners I had seen on Alan Villiers’s and John Guzzwell’s films.
This took up the whole morning. After a brief rest for lunch, I put on all my deck clothes again and went forward to set the storm staysail. But along came a burst of 45 knots, and I cancelled the project. At five o’clock in the afternoon I dressed up again to set the sail, but again decided against it as soon as I got into the cockpit. Although it seemed calm at times in the cabin, there was still a lot of wind, with a very big swell running. The troughs looked like deep valleys, and the rolling was fierce. I should have liked to get up more sail before dark, for the glass was rising, and I felt that there must be an end to the squalls soon. But it was still rugged weather. Since two o’clock that afternoon I had averaged 5.8 knots with only the storm jib (107 square feet) set.
By seven o’clock it was almost dark. In such weather there was nothing to do at dark, except to turn in and read in my bunk. I didn’t seem to get hungry for dinner, or any evening meal, and it was not comfortable sitting in the cabin. I could afford only one light, for if I lit the cabin brightly it used too much current, and one small light was gloomy to sit by. I could not tackle any joinery or chores because the movement was too violent. It was a big physical effort to keep one’s body in position, and one had to concentrate so much on not being thrown about that no mental effort was left for anything that required care and concentration. Those whip rolls of anything up to 60 ° one way and about 30 ° the other demanded great strength in holding on, or balancing on one’s legs. There were some monstrous waves rolling up. I looked out through the cabin hatch above the washboards in the companion, saw a big wave coming, and was so interested in watching it that I did not duck in time, and got a bucketful on my padded coat and head.
I had been having trouble with my paraffin stove, for the outlet pipe was being backwinded by the gale. I cured this temporarily by moving the cowl for the pipe outboard of the hood over the companion, and the stove seemed to be working all right. That was a great comfort.
While I was entering up my log at 08.45 on February 28 a big wave forced the self-steering vane to slip, and the boat came up aback on to north. I hauled on the control line which I had led into the cabin so that I could help out the steering oar, but I could not get the boat back on to its course. Later I found that this cord was twisted round a rod on the deck. I dressed as fast as possible and put the boat back on course, but closer to downwind than before. The seas were running bigger than I had yet seen, monstrous things, and Gipsy Moth needed to run nearly straight downwind. The self-steering gear seemed undamaged; how it survived an hour in those conditions I could not understand. I considered what best to do, and finally went forward and lowered the storm jib sufficiently to reef it by tying the row of reef points. The heading was not so good but I was concerned only with survival without damage. The second crosstree light had failed, which was a blow, because it left me without deck lighting from aloft. I did not have a good waterproof torch; the two I had were both duds, and I could not get any other kind in Sydney.
Two hours later the sea was just as rough. I kept on wondering if it would be safe to turn 20 ° off downwind to give a better heading, but told myself that I must remember that an hour or two of a better heading was relatively unimportant; the thing was to arrive. Twice the self-steering vane slipped when the boat was slewed round in a wave, and each time I put the boat back on to its correct heading. I logged:
“I don’t want to put any more strain on the self-steering than I have to. It will be a messy job trying to repair it over the stern in these conditions.”
That evening I wrote:
“My fair weather has not shown up: there is a big swell running like hills rolling down on the boat, but fortunately the slopes are not too steep. There is still a turbulent sea on top of it and Gipsy Moth is knocked half over every now and then. With the last one I thought the dishes would fly out of their niches, etc. I should like to point up
to a better heading, but it might be wiser to wait. If a real rogue of a wave arrives it is better to be headed downwind even if it is off-course.”
I was sailing 30 ° off downwind. I should like to have come up another 30° closer to the wind, but dared not go across those waves.
On 25 days when I had good fixes between February 7 and March 28, the speedometer under-read 560 miles or 16½ per cent.
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13. To the Horn
The gales of those seven days carried me across 1,115 miles of ocean, and left me with some 3,000 miles to Cape Horn. I began to wonder what I should do if the gale now blew from the opposite quarter as happened to Drake when he ran for three weeks before north-easters after leaving Magellan Strait. What an appalling thought! At one in the morning of March 1 I increased my sail area by 300 per cent. The week of gales had ended. I had finished it with only the little spitfire sail of 60 square feet set. The strongest wind I recorded was 67 knots. The seas were always different. The worst, which rolled up with the last fierce squall, were like steep banks moving on to the boat with a rough turbulent sea on top of them. No wonder the clipper captains ordered their helmsmen not to look astern. Sometimes the seas made me think of valleys; at other times of moving hills. Gipsy Moth behaved well, and did not broach. I accepted her flick heeling up to 60° but did not like it. I once thought the crockery would fly out of the vertical holders, but only the gash bucket shot a horrid mess of eggshells, potato skins and tea leaves over the cabin floor. I was using the bucket at the time, and had its locker door open.
I was now convinced that Gipsy Moth could do nothing else but run before the wind in very bad seas. There just must not be land ahead! I understood now why the clippers aimed to reach the latitude of the Horn 300 miles west of it.
Dawn that day brought me a fine sky, with a few fair-weather clouds. The sea was still lumpy, with a big swell running, and it was difficult to stand on deck. But I managed to sort out sundry sheets and halliards and after resheeting the genoa staysail, I hoisted it. With only that and the little 60-foot spitfire up, Gipsy Moth was doing 5½ knots on course. I felt that she could do with more sail, but was still distrustful about whether the squalls had really packed up, and decided to bide a while. But I could not bear to think of good wind being wasted, and an hour or so later dressed up again and hoisted the mizzen. I noticed that the lower pin holding the self-steering vane to the shaft had slipped out, so I replaced it. There was no wear in the pin itself, but only in the woodwork holding it.
That was a busy day, for improvement in the weather always means a lot of deck work. Also, I wanted to take the chance of baking some more bread. I put the yeast to rise, and just as I had done so went to take a noon sunshot. When I got back to the yeast, it might not have been there! I kneaded the dough just the same and set the loaves to rise, but nothing happened, so I dumped the lot in the ocean and started afresh. That was the first failure in breadmaking that I can recall. My second batch, baked from some Australian wholemeal, was delicious.
Some notes from my log:
“01.30. Back from a field-day on the foredeck. 1. The inspection lamp, carried forward to the main mast is excellent to work with. 2. Dropped the working jib; the tail I added to the existing halliard tail has made that job easier. 3. Changed twisted shackle on spitfire. 4. Changed over jib sheets. 5. Hoisted spitfire. On return to the cockpit I decided there would certainly be too much sail set in an hour or so’s time, and, in fact, there was nearly too much now, so I returned with the lamp and dropped the genoa staysail. Gipsy Moth seems to be going nearly as fast and the difference in comfort is amazing. Down below at 6 knots it seems almost as if she is not moving. The extra speed was attractive but reserve of power and everything else should be the motto on this passage. My one-piece suit is a work of art; but it is wetter inside than out. I think a cupful of water condensed inside it. Also my jersey was wet at the sleeves and, of course, my scarf and shirt wet at the neck. Now for some supper.
“07.50. Dropped the trysail and raised the main. I have a much easier drill for this now when downwind; not such a Herculean labour, but still as good as a run in Hyde Park any morning before breakfast.
“19.10. It is misty, drizzly weather, nearly fog like the North Atlantic. I have been a busy bee since five o’clock. I had a go at the leak into the foot of my bunk. Then was hard at it with one sail change after another, furling or bagging sails and coaxing the self-steering gear to work. What next with the wind? I hope it does not keep on backing and end up in the east, right in my eye.
“22.10. Good R/T contact. Got all messages through. Hard work, though.
“22.30. A dark night, black. Nearly becalmed. Wind reads 5 knots, but I expect the true wind is about 2½ knots.
“March 4, 11.55. Took advantage of light airs to slap paint on possible leaks above foot of my bunk and on the deck above the forepeak. Looks horrible with my bad painting, but the leak is the thing. I got plenty of paint on my coat but took it off with paraffin. I reckon that if only I could find these leaks, I should be able to staunch them with enough sloshes of paint on them.
“14.13. An albatross is flying up to within 10 feet of the stern; I fed it some gash which it seemed to relish. I have finished my fresh butter. So far my sewing repair of the mizzen stays’l is standing up to usage. Nice sailing with a pretty flat sea and enough breeze. Long may it last.
“19.07. Took advantage of light airs to have a field day below deck. Item, inspected batteries and topped up with water (very little needed). Batteries fully charged. Inspected fresh water tank in motor (O.K.). Prepared steering Monitor ready for action. Transferred speedometer battery cells to a Tupper to keep them dry. I nearly got to the galley drawers which have been on my list since February 7!
“20.40. I keep on trying to coax the self-steering to take control. The mizzen stays’l makes this very difficult in light airs, and this wind is flukey all the time, with freshes and near-calms.
“March 5, 00.45. The off-course alarm works well, but is pretty alarming when trying to sleep! Its raison d’être of course! Quandary now, what’s to do? At present pointing 1550 (SSE, i.e.-40 ° off course) with wind nearly abeam. Not enough wind to work the steering gear if I head downwind. Shall I down the miz. stays’l? I think so, then the self-steering might hold her pointing nearly downwind. Speed must be forgotten.
“01.30. I will see if the other gybe would be better. An important factor is that the boat continues to move without going aback with the wind nearly abeam, whereas she is likely to go aback if I try to steer downwind in this near-calm. I’ll go see, anyway.
“02.25. I dropped and bagged the miz. stays’l and would like to set it on the other gybe, but there is not enough wind yet to make the anemometer vane indicate a wind direction. Better bide a while, I fancy, until the wind declares its intentions. Quite a balmy night, black except for a lightening in the sky low in the SE. Gybed, did I say it?
“03.50. A good thing I did not hoist the miz. stays’l again. We have now come slightly on the wind, and it would not set. Raining.
“06.00. For the second time this night the off-course alarm had me out of sleep when the heading was 45° off, due to the wind veering. Wind now about north-east and has freshened to 15 knots. Raining.
“10.55. I got my sleep in pieces last night; ended up with a last and most welcome drop-off from 08.30 to 09.40. I woke to a Force 6 north-easter. Then, out and about, first dropping the main and housing the boom in its crutch. Still had too much sail for on the wind, so dropped the genoa stays’l and hoisted the storm stays’l in place. Light rain or drizzle on grey morning. Poor visibility, 10/10 overcast. Wind from north-east. I hope it has started to back towards north again.
“11.00. Time for some breakfast, though I had baked beans and toast with hot chocolate at 3 o’clock.
“12.30. Still raining hard but the sky looks much brighter, as if the sun is above only a thin layer of overcast. There seems less water in the forepeak after
my painting spree yesterday in spite of the rain and the spray due to being on the wind. There was not enough to siphon out. The white paint also helps by highlighting any unfilled crannies, and I shall go over it all again looking for cracks or crannies.
“16.10. Wind dropped. Must set mains’l unless wind change is about to happen. Drat! Transmitting due in 50 minutes, and I want some lunch.
“16.38. Mains’l up and set.
“17.23. No luck with R/T to Buenos Aires or the British Antarctic Survey. Too early, I think. (I cannot spend hours at the radio telephone trying to make contact, as would a full-time operator.)
“March 6, 01.25. Tried to soften the terrible banging and cracking of blocks and ropes, due, I think, to the swell underpassing. Each swell crest robs the sails of all wind as well as heeling the boat.
“07.40. The off-course alarm woke me, and I assumed we had been headed 45 ° off course to the south-east, so I snoozed on as there was nothing much to be done about it when nearly becalmed. But when later I cast a sleepy eye at the tell-tale compass above me I found we had been headed off downwind to northeast! I hopped out then and trimmed the sails, but there is not enough wind to turn the wind-vane. No speed records today, I guess.
“14.30. After a morning becalmed for three hours, we are now plugging into a Force 6 easterly. We were galloping down to the South Pole, so I tacked, assuming this weather layout will have a veering wind, as did that easterly a day or so ago. I would say the wind has veered 10° since I tacked. I feel out of gear today, though better since an hour’s sleep at noon. I can’t get on without my sleep ration. I’ll be a devil and have a drink, and then some lunch.
Gipsy Moth Circles the World Page 19
