When I stepped into the cockpit I was astounded to see a ship near by, about a half-mile off. I had a feeling that if there was one place in the world where I would not see a ship it was off Cape Horn. As soon as I recovered from the shock I realised that because of its drab overall colour it must be a warship, and therefore was likely to be HMS Protector. On first sighting it, it had seemed like magic, but on thinking it over I realised that if they had picked up my radio message to Buenos Aires of the night before relating how I was aiming to pass midway between the two groups of islands sailing blind during the night, the warship had only to place herself half-way between the two groups; and if my navigation was correct I should sail straight up to her. I went below and called up HMS Protector on 2,182 kcs. She answered immediately. I said I would speak to her again as soon as I had set my trysail.
After setting the trysail I went down below for quite a while. I talked to Protector, and that used more time than it should have done, because I had great difficulty in hearing what her operator was saying. This was tantalising because I could clearly hear some land stations up to 7,000 miles away if I wanted to. After that I had my breakfast, and did not hurry over it, then wrote up the log, studied the chart and decided on my tactics, etc. While I was breakfasting a big wave swept over the boat and filled the cockpit half full. It took more than fifteen minutes to drain. By the time I had finished breakfast the wind had risen to 40 knots. At 09.00 I went on deck, and dropped both the trysail and the genoa staysail, leaving only the spitfire set. As I was finishing the deckwork a big wave took Gipsy Moth and slewed her round broadside on; in other words she broached to. It was lucky that I was on deck to free the self-steering gear, and to bring her round on to course again. I stood on the cockpit seat to do this so as to keep my legs out of the water in the cockpit. I looked round and there was the Horn, quite plain to see. It stood up out of the sea like a black ice-cream cone. Hermite Island, north-west of it, was grey and outlined against the sky.
At 10.43 I logged:
“I reckon I am east of Old Horn, but I can’t get a bearing
without going into the cockpit. Perhaps I had better, as I have kept
all my oilskins on. Still gusting over 50 knots.”
At 11.15 I took a bearing of the Horn and was then definitely past it. As I had made good 39 miles in the past five and a quarter hours, a speed of 7-4 knots, I must have passed the Horn at 11.07½ o’clock. I had no time or inclination at that moment, however, for such niceties of navigation. Before I reached the Horn the familiar quiet roar of wind was beginning; it was blowing up, and the sea was roughing up fast. I dare say that a lot of this was due to being only 7½ miles south of the Horn when I passed it. I was beginning to feel seasick, and had the usual lethargic reluctance to do anything. I just wanted to be left alone, by things and especially by people. I cursed the Protector for hanging about, especially as I noted that she looked steady enough to play a game of billiards on her deck1
Just then I’m damned if an aircraft didn’t buzz into sight. I cursed it. If there was one place in the world where I expected to be alone it was off Cape Horn; besides which this aircraft made me apprehensive. I couldn’t say exactly why, but I think that an old flier has a perception which amounts almost to instinct about an aeroplane in flight. I thought this one would come down and crash into the water. How the devil was I going to attempt the rescue of its occupants in that sea? I tried to figure out a drill for rescue. Queasiness made it hard to think, and I was greatly relieved when it finally cleared off2
Ten minutes after noon I logged: “I tried to be too clever (as so often, I regret). I went out to try to coax Gipsy Moth to sail more across the wind; the motive being to get north into the lee of land.” I thought that if only I could make some northing, I would get protection in the lee of Horn Island, and the islands to the north of it. However, the seas did not like it when I started sailing across them, and a souser filled the cockpit half full when I was in it. As a result, I had to change all my clothes, and also put Gipsy Moth back on to her original heading. That kept me just on the edge of the wind shadow from Cape Horn, and that might have made for more turbulence.
However, the wind was backing slowly, so that I steadily approached the heading I wanted to Staten Island. Unfortunately, with the wind shifting into the south-west, I got no protection whatever from the land, and after Protector left (one and a half hours after noon) the seas built up to some of the most vicious I had experienced on the voyage.
When Protector forged ahead, turned round ahead of Gipsy Moth and went away, she left me with a forlorn, empty feeling of desolation. I think it is a far greater strain to have a brief sight of a ship full of people in such conditions than it is to be quite alone: it emphasises the isolation, because it makes one realise the impossibility of being helped should one require help. The odd thing was that I had not only no feeling of achievement whatever at having passed the Horn, but I had no more feeling about it than if I had been passing landmarks all the way from Australia.
It had certainly been a rough sea before Protector left; the cockpit had been filled five times up to then. It was an extraordinary sight to see the gear lever throttle control, and instruments of the motor which were placed half-way up the side of the cockpit, all under water. But that sea was kid’s stuff compared to what was running three hours later. The biggest wind registered by the anemometer that I noticed was 55 knots. I was doubtful of the accuracy of this instrument in high winds, but even if it was only 55 knots that added to the 8 knots of speed which Gipsy Moth was making, totted up to a 63-knot wind—Force 11. The seas were far more vicious than I should have expected from such a wind and they were frightening.
The self-steering gear seemed unable to control the heading so I went aft to inspect the gear. I found that the connection between the wind vane and the steering oar had come out of its socket again. I tried to replace its proper pin, but could not get it in by hand, so I fetched an ordinary split pin and used that.
I think that this particularly turbulent sea was due to being on the edge of soundings; a few miles to port the depth was only 50 fathoms, and a few miles to starboard it was 2,300 fathoms.
By 16.30, however, there had been one or two lulls, which cheered me enormously. I had been thinking that I should have to stay all night holding the self-steering control lines in my hands. These were the emergency lines which I had led into the cabin, so that I could help out the self-steering gear when it was unable to cope with a broaching of the boat.
At 17.37 I logged:
“A definite lull, with wind not roaring or screaming, and wind speeds down to 25-30 knots. Long may it last! The trouble with these gales is that I lose my appetite just when plenty of food is needed, I am sure. There were some wonderful pictures of big seas this afternoon after Protector left, but I just cannot face photographing them. Photography seems so paltry beside the tremendous display of force by nature.”
I was headed north-east for the east point of Staten Island. Gipsy Moth was travelling fast, although she had only the storm jib set, and that was reefed so that the total area was only 60 square feet, which is not much for an 18-ton boat. The wind had swung round to south-west and I heard later that someone aboard Protector had said the wind was 100 miles an hour when she left Gipsy Moth. I think that was a misquote, but six hours later I was in an angry storm, as if the Horn was letting me know what it could do if it tried. The anemometer only reads to 60 knots which, with the boat speed of 6 knots, amounted to at least 66 knots, but I would say it was gusting up to 75 knots and perhaps occasionally 85 knots or 100 mph. Powerful seas roared past, and breaking tops came rolling down on to me from the stern. I thanked God that I could run before it. My only fear was that the wind would continue to back, and make the land a lee shore. There was far more power in this sea than in the one that had capsized Gipsy Moth off Australia, and if I had had to stop running and lie ahull—well, it couldn’t have been done. The worst time was at nightfall. In
the increasing darkness the seas were just terrific. I admit I was frightened for a while3
However, fear does not last. I turned in and went to sleep. I slept for about two hours, until an hour after midnight. I found that the speedometer batteries had run down and I changed them. Unfortunately I did not allow for the distance run being under-registered. This might have had serious consequences. I logged:
“The rolling is frightful. It is very difficult to stand in the cabin.
The wind is pretty strong still, 23-33 knots in the quieter periods.”
The barometer had steadied. I ought to have realised that there was something wrong with the mileometer, because it registered only 8.8 miles run in three hours. All the morning I had been making good about 8 miles in one hour. I had run up the dead reckoning position at 22.00 using the distance recorded by the mileometer. I was on a heading of NE by E to pass close east of Staten Island. There seemed a good open space before me on the chart, with the east cape of Staten Island 85 miles ahead by the dead reckoning. The navigation looked so easy that I did not pay much attention to it.
At 04.40 in the morning I gybed, because Gipsy Moth had been forced up to a heading of NNE by the backing wind. I logged: “My hands are numb and I have difficulty in hanging up my coat or in writing.” There was a strong wind still blowing, over 60 knots. I found that the long-suffering wind vane was catching up in the mizzen backstay, and I used a length of cord to prevent the backstay from fouling it. No wonder the self-steering gear had been eccentric in the gale! I had a hot rum to warm me up and wrote in the log:
“I now feel as tight as a coot, though I don’t know how a coot could be tight. It was very good rum though. When we are going dead before the wind it seems as quiet as a church at times when the boat is not rolling. I think I am short of food—I have had only two square meals in two days, supplemented by snacks, mostly liquid like chocolate or honey and lemon. I am not sure that the paraffin stove is not upsetting me with carbon monoxide. Big wash-outs on the deck send a spurt of salt water down the stove pipe and the flames burn yellow instead of blue for a while. I have had a nagging headache for a day and have been wondering if the stove causes it. It is difficult to make the cowl work because of eddies from the gale blowing on to it from astern. The fumes are pushed back into the cabin.”
There was nothing in sight at 05.30 and I had seen nothing while working for quite a while on the stern at daybreak. I felt hungry and started preparing breakfast. I chanced to look out of the window in the doghouse on the port side and I felt as if the roots of my hair all over my body had turned red. I was startled to the bone, when, on looking out of the hatch, I saw a vast craggy bulk of land less than 10 miles away, and we had nearly passed it. I expected Staten Island to be still 35 miles ahead. Had I been pushed in by the tide to close Tierra del Fuego in the night? If so I must be bearing down on Staten Island ahead as a lee shore in winds up to 40 knots. I took three bearings of a cape that Gipsy Moth was passing, from which I reckoned that we were 7 miles off it, and that the ground speed was 8.8 knots. As soon as I had sighted the land I had prised myself up in the companion and peered over the top of the hood above it. I was headed to pass a headland, leaving it 5 miles to port. I must establish my position. My breakfast, of course, had gone for a burton. Fortunately, the sun had risen nearly dead ahead; a sun observation would give me a position line which would decide how far up the coast I was. I hurriedly fished out the sextant and set to work. Meanwhile, the headland was rushing up fast. The hilly land rising to mountainous country behind it was moving up as fast as if I was passing in a train. I think I have seldom taken and worked out a sight quicker. At the same time I was taking it steadily, set on not making a mistake. I plotted the resultant position line. I was passing the East Cape of Staten Island. I could hardly believe it. I checked my working again—there was no mistake.
Although I could hardly believe it at the time, when I came to look at the chart and study the dead reckoning navigation, it all became simple. From my noon position near Cape Horn I had worked out the heading which would take me 5 miles past the easternmost cape of Staten Island. In fact, I passed 7 miles off it. The distance was 140 miles, and if I had worked out the time at the morning’s ground speed of 7.4 knots my estimated time of arrival at the Cape would have been nineteen hours after leaving-the noon position, i.e. at 07.00 on the Tuesday morning. In fact, I arrived there at one and a half minutes past 8. It took me longer, because the wind eased during the night, and Gipsy Moth, still with only the 60-foot spitfire set, slowed down. What I had forgotten to take into account was the fact that the speedometer batteries had run down, and had undoubtedly been under-registering; therefore I thought I was going much slower than in fact I was. That I overlooked this is understandable to myself; I got agitated and disturbed by the presence of the warship, and having to talk to her, and also by the arrival of the aircraft, and being anxious that she was going to ditch. I felt tired, strained and extremely lonely when they all cleared off. On top of that I was seasick, and later in a Cape Horn grey bearder storm, and so I neglected to take account of the mileometer under-reading.
Now Staten Island had rushed past, and already it was disappearing in the haze. At last I felt I had rounded the Horn properly, and was headed into the middle of the wide waters of the South Atlantic. As I left Staten Island, I had an immense feeling of relief. It was the same feeling as the clipper sailors record, of feeling that they were home when they rounded the Horn. Gradually this fades and vanishes, and is forgotten as the 8,000-mile voyage up the Atlantic proceeds. Those oceans turn out to be no lily ponds, as they seem to be after turning the Horn.
My log takes up the tale:
“March 21, 11.56. There is still a very rough sea. Thank God we are going downwind. When the boat is slewed round broadside to the seas, she gets a pounding straight away. The problem now is whether to change course to the north to pass west of the Falkland Islands, or head north-east as at present to pass east of the Falkland Isles. Considering the wind is sure to swing to the west after this, and that north-east is the downwind course we are on at present, the eastward passage is the obvious one. If I keep to this heading I can relax till tomorrow morning, when I must start cocking an eye for Beauchene Island. Meanwhile, what I must do is tighten up the wind vane, which now slips every time a good-sized wave hits the stern. I feel tired to the bone; this gale stuff goes on and on. The noise, the incessant effort to hold on, or balance, and avoid being thrown, the nervous strain of waiting for a socker wave, loss of appetite due to the movement, disturbed sleep. Put clocks forward one hour.
“14.20. I found that the bolt holding the wind vane to its shaft had sheered. With difficulty I replaced it with a new bolt without losing the vane in the Force 6 wind. I expect that one end of this bolt had sheered through some time ago, which is why I was so worried about the vane’s erratic behaviour during the night. I think it is a miracle that it survives a big blow and rough seas. I got a sun sight. I hoisted the storm staysail and set the spitfire higher up its stay by using the tack pennant. We are jogging along quietly at 5 knots with those two sails only, and I think I will leave it so till the sea, which is still very rough by normal standards, goes down. I started the motor for charging. I used the heat starter which I seldom have to do normally. Now here is another seeming miracle—that the motor starts right away. After watching the instrument panel, the throttle and gear lever all under sea water for nearly a quarter of an hour, and considering that they have had several similar submersions, it is just like a miracle that it starts with no trouble. Now for some lunch.
“18.05. That blow is over: it is fine mild weather. It makes me feel I have rounded the Horn at last, and in a few minutes I am going to crack a bottle of champagne to celebrate. After that I want a big sleep. The boat is undercanvassed but that must wait. By the way, as I passed the Horn at 16.07½ GMT March 20 I won my race with the sun; but only just—by 15.275 miles, the distance which the sun was still south of the Li
ne.
“March 22, 01.20. Another proper piece of Charleyism: I went off into a deep sleep at 7 p.m., and woke just before midnight to find we were headed south and going well! The wind had veered and I wondered when? I hope I woke when it happened, but doubt it, I was so tired. At least it was taking me away from danger, the Falkland group. If only I had set the off-course alarm! I must plot the DR from Staten Island. To show how I feel, I have not plotted the DR up from the Horn yet, or totted up the day’s run. [It was 160½ miles noon to noon all under the spitfire only.] Meanwhile, I will run the DR up to the present and work out two positions, according to whether the ship changed heading when I started to sleep, or when I finished sleeping. Anyway I gybed as soon as I woke and so got close to the right heading. I avoided any blunders on deck, though still thick-headed with drowsiness. I tried to finish the job without a safety-belt on, but had forgotten the levered shrouds. So I had to don harness in the middle of the gybe to go forward and handle the shrouds. How I would relish 12 hours’ solid sleep. I was thinking it was that warship and all the telephoning which fagged me. After 50 days plodding across the Southern Ocean alone, I needed the Horn to myself, somehow. This must sound daft, but 50 days’solitude is strong medicine.”
Having written that, which, I think, truly reflected my feelings in the early hours of that morning, I decided to leave the yacht as she was going for the moment and go back to sleep. I stayed in my bunk until nine o’clock, when I got up and unreefed the spitfire jib, thinking that a scrap more sail would steady the boat. It did, and also increased her speed a little. Then I thought about breakfast, and was annoyed to find that I couldn’t have any wholemeal toast because I had run out of bread. I breakfasted instead on Ryvita and butter and marmalade, which I enjoyed, but I like my wholemeal bread, so after breakfast I baked another batch. I had to give the albatrosses the rest of Lorna’s cake (a splendid cake, given to me by Lorna Anderson in Sydney). I had spun it out too long, and the fat in it had turned rancid. There were seven albatrosses following Gipsy Moth, and they certainly did love that cake. They kept swooping close to the boat, only 20-30 feet away, obviously asking for more, but I had no more to give them.
Gipsy Moth Circles the World Page 22
