Back to Text
16. Trade Winds and Doldrums
I crossed the equator at 03.30 on Monday morning, April 24, but it was too early in the day to celebrate. The Line was succeeded by Doldrums, long periods of calm, and then light airs coming from all round the compass. There was heavy rain between whiles.
By noon I was 21½ miles north of the Line. It was scorchingly hot, and I emptied bucketfuls of ocean over me every few hours. The cockpit floor was hot enough to burn my feet, and I had to cool it first with buckets of water.
I then celebrated crossing the Line with a pint of ale from the keg in the keel to toast Father Neptune. I hoped it would bring me luck—one can do with all the luck one can get. The ship’s barber had another go at cutting my hair for the occasion.
One odd feature of my passage through the Trade Wind belt was that I kept on sighting land, which gave me a mental jolt every time, though I knew that there was no land nearer than Fernando Noronha Island, 350 miles due west, except for the St Peter and St Paul Rocks, 200 miles on my port beam. I believe this was due to unusual visibility, so that I would be looking at tops of clouds below and far beyond the horizon, and those were imitating every kind of land.
I kept jogging along northwards. Every mile of northing in the Doldrums is worth five anywhere else. Rain came at intervals in tropical downpours, like having a hose turned on to the top of the cabin. The endless windshifts were very trying, and I find an entry in the log for the night of April 25: “To hell with the whole outfit! I am going to try for a sleep.” However, by noon that day I had made a good day’s run of 142½ miles, which I thought a fine piece of luck in the Doldrums. I found that I had used 20 gallons of fresh water in nineteen days from the 40-gallon tank, so decided to fill up while still in Rain Squall Alley.
I could not see the sun clearly in the desilvered mirror of my big sextant, so I brought out the little flying boat sextant which Maria Blewitt1 gave me after the 1945 war. It is a very handy instrument to use in the cramped quarters of a small yacht, and I was delighted with it. It has only one fault, that it is difficult to read off the altitude on the scale, and I dare say Maria found this a troublesome defect.
I missed the Pilot Chart for the North Atlantic which I had forgotten to bring with me, but the Admiralty Chart put me already inside the March (spring) boundary of the North-East Trade Wind belt, although still 660 miles south of the August (summer) boundary. It was exciting waiting for the North-East Trades to turn up.
In the next rain squall I connected the boom to my No. 2 tank. The rain was so heavy that the pipe in the boom couldn’t take all the water, and it overflowed from the boom-end on to the deck with loud splashing.
In some 24,000 miles of sailing up to April 26, I had seen only one fish apart from flying fish. On this day I saw hundreds and thousands of small tunny. They were making every kind of leap out of the water, from high vertical jumps to long low curves. I saw two pass each other in the air, going in opposite directions. About twenty birds, dove grey with pointed wings and tail, and flying like doves, were screaming and diving into the water within 10 feet of the boat. This went on for about six hours from 11.00. The gathering of fish and birds must have been due to Gipsy Moth in some way because, although it was happening on both sides, and ahead, of the boat, I could not see fish or birds anywhere else during the six hours. Maybe they were all feeding on tiny fish which were swarming round Gipsy Moth, thinking that she was a whale.
I was always needing to conjure up some new idea, such as how to do the job of gear that failed, or how to keep out of trouble in a crisis. And there were countless other little things. For example, I always read when eating, but for a long time could not think of any way of propping up a magazine on my swinging table in front of my swinging chair. The flat surface of this table is only 12½ × 17½ inches. Suddenly the idea came to me—I pulled a magazine apart, and propped up a page at a time. This opened up a new field of interest and pleasure, by enabling me to read the coloured Sunday newspaper supplements which I had collected before I left Sydney. Incidentally, I am sure that to read a page continuously moving on a swinging table must be the best possible eye exercise.
Sometimes I saw strange things. Just before crossing the Line the boat appeared to be sailing up a gently sloping sea surface, in other words, uphill. At the time I was a little worried, but when I was 240 miles north of the Line I noticed the same thing again. This time the sea appeared uphill in every direction, as if I were sailing in a shallow saucer.
I flitted through the Doldrums as if I had a reserved passage. On the evening of April 26 the breeze veered to NNE and by noon next day I was sure of having reached the North-East Trade Wind. It began as a nice gentle breeze making for delightful sailing, even if slow. I pulled out the underwater speedometer unit on the east side of the boat, because I expected not to change heel for 1,400 miles. Father Neptune must have approved of my toast to him when I crossed the Line, so I drew some more ale from the keg and drank his health again, hoping for more luck.
I was not so successful in the galley. I cooked a golden sponge pudding which I had been looking forward to, but as I turned it out on a plate I felt seasick, and did not want it. Then I started baking bread. This was a stupid thing to do at nightfall, because I promptly felt so sleepy that I could not keep my eyes open, but I was stuck with the damn bread for an hour. I couldn’t understand why the bottom loaf in the oven at my previous baking was quite uncooked inside: it was the first time this had happened. The odd thing was that the top loaf was well done, yet it was the top loaf that I always worried about in case it did not get enough heat in the tin oven. I believe the truth on this occasion was that the oven was too hot; that it rapidly cooked the outside of the bottom loaf, and hardened it up so much that the inside could not cook properly.
At this time I had almost a craving for fresh fish. On April 28 I found two more flying fish on deck, caught up under the furled sail on the foredeck. I decided that probably lots more fish had wanted to come aboard, but had been washed off again. To help them to stay with me, I rigged a length of small-meshed net along the leeward side of the foredeck. This proved a success, because next morning there were two flying fish there, which certainly would have gone or been washed overboard but for the net. They were not big—about 7-8 inches—but they made a nice meal for me. I think these flying fish had some important food in them which is lacking in tinned fish.
On April 29 I finished the fresh (ahem!) eggs, and I ate my last grapefruit, leaving only one orange and one lemon. I thought it amazing that the fruit had lasted so well, in such bad conditions of damp, violent movement and heat. In one way, I was not sorry to see the last of the eggs for I had grown nervous towards the end whenever I opened one. Some had been cracked in the capsize off Sydney, and nearly all had black mould patches outside, due to the wet lockers, though this did not always affect the inside of the egg.
My remaining cheeses had to go, too. There was an increasingly horrible smell in the cabin, which at first I attributed to rotting fruit or vegetables. But after I had checked all these, the aroma steadily became more nauseating every time I passed through the cabin. Then I found that it was due to five cheeses which had been shut in a plastic box. A roll of charts had fallen on to the box and pressed open the lid, thereby letting out the evil genie of the box. Those cheeses were not crawling or humming, they were swimming. It was an ordeal to get them into the sea. I had wrapped another cheese in some pages of the Illustrated London News and that one tasted all right though smelling pretty high. After the giant hum of the others I could not face it, and it also went off to the flying fish.
I was running short of diesel oil—I must have been crazy not to bring more fuel oil in jerry cans. At dark I wanted to rig up a light because of crossing the New York-Cape Town steamer route, and to save current, I rigged up a cheap hurricane paraffin lamp made by an American firm in Hong Kong. The flame flickered madly in the breeze when I hung it to the backstay, and it
looked as if it would not last for 30 seconds; in fact, I never knew it blown out.
That night I logged:
“Big news! I have seen the Pole Star for the first time. Theoretically, of course, it was visible from the Equator, but cloud and the hazy atmosphere have prevented my seeing it so low down until now. Gipsy Moth is skittling along; I had to stop plotting on a chart because I could not hold a pair of dividers still enough.”
This elation was followed by renewed trouble from my right elbow. It was very painful, and I feared that I must have damaged the bone. I hoped for the best, and put on tincture of arnica frequently. The pain kept me awake, and I found that I could ease it only by holding the elbow above my head. Unfortunately, as soon as I dropped off to sleep, the arm dropped on to my face, and woke me up.
Later I found that my arm did not hurt if I pulled with that hand, or held on to something with it, which seemed miraculous to me. But it was most painful if I pushed as much as one finger with it. I wound a four-yard crêpe bandage round the elbow, which eased the pain.
When one thinks what a broken bone could entail, one’s imagination can turn anything into a break. This was a grim day for me. Besides the trouble with my arm, I felt as if I had been poisoned. I moved unsteadily, was light-headed and had a mild roaring in my ears. After each essential job I flopped back in my bunk. However, I managed to do everything necessary, though with much cursing and groaning and, in fact, the day’s run was no less than 181½ miles. In the afternoon I suddenly tumbled to why I was feeling so ill; I suddenly realised that I had felt off colour, or, as I thought, seasick, every time I had drunk some of the Australian champagne. The night before I had had a half bottle of it, and no other drinks. Half a bottle is, after all, only two glasses of champagne, but I felt really ill, as if I had been badly poisoned. I think that the sea movement must have turned the champagne into acid. Throughout April 30 I still felt ghastly, with my ears humming, and a sensation as if I could float off into the air. I drank water with a teaspoonful of bicarbonate of soda which, I hoped, would relieve my misery. May Day was not much better; it was one of those days when everything seemed to go wrong, or be awkward. My flying fish for breakfast were burnt, uncooked inside, and greasy—all at the same time. My big loaf was uncooked inside like my previous baking, though I had left it in the oven for 1½ hours. I seemed to bump my elbow everywhere, particularly on the companion steps, when I drew up the pump handles for sea water, the fresh water, and the galley sink; also I caught it every time on the sharp edge of the cockpit winches. I was a fool to struggle with the main boom reefing handle; the reefing gear had jammed and I was using brute force to turn the handle, when it slipped and I gave my elbow a frightful dint. This made me feel angry with myself, and I wrote in the log: “How damned ungrateful I am! I am lucky to be able to draw those pumps and work the winches. Thank God I can use my elbow and am well enough to eat a breakfast.”
Navigation was intriguing. Where I was on May I the sun passed nearly overhead, within 30' of angle from the boat, equivalent to 30 miles on the earth’s surface. In a few minutes the sun swung from nearly due east to nearly west. I got five sun sights within sixteen minutes of time, and the noon position point was within a mile of four of these sights. It was a good day’s run—171 miles, making 678 for four days, an average of a shade over 7 knots.
The poisoning (or whatever it was) had taken the stuffing out of me, and I spent much of May 2 lying down and trying to sleep. I felt better for the rest, and needed to, for in the evening there was a bite in the wind, and the going was getting fairly rough. I got into trousers and jersey again, feeling sad at the ending of that lovely heat. I had to hunt for some pyjamas, and more bedding. I rigged the Chinese lantern again, with sundry curses at being thrown about. That lantern was a magic job; it flickered wildly, frantically, but stayed alight, no matter how hard the wind blew or what the boat did. It not only stayed alight, but I had trouble putting it out in the morning! I saw a flying fish fly past in the dusk six feet away, like a bird. Three others rose just ahead of the stem, and turned sharply round in formation to avoid the boat and shoot off downwind. A pretty clever design of hull and rig is a flying fish.
Gipsy Moth was sailing fast through the North-East Trade Wind belt. It was rough going, with the wind at 30 knots a lot of the time. The boat was heeled over to port the whole time, up to 55 ° of heel, with an average of, I would say, 35 °. The discomfort below, living 24 hours a day at this heel, with rough going, was extreme, but I was determined to sail Gipsy Moth at her maximum speed to find out what she could do2 She could only sail at maximum speed on the wind if heeled to between 20 and 45 °. Down in the big Southern Ocean seas I dared not sail her at full speed at this initial heel, because a big wave would capsize her. But up here in the Trade Wind zone I did not fear any waves bigger than the ordinary run of sea. On May 2 the run was 170 miles, and on May 3, 188.
Gipsy Moth was making heavy weather of it, plunging and lurching into the waves. It took me rather long to change down the 300-foot jib to the 200-foot jib because of my painful arm. It is surprising how many parts of the job have always been done by that arm only, in spite of the fact that I am pretty well ambidextrous. However little I used the arm, it was too much for it; it was swollen below the elbow, a longish lump about 4 inches long by 2 wide, hot to touch and very tender3 At noon on May 3 I discovered that I needed only another run of 164 miles to make good 1,200 miles for the week, and I went against my true judgement, and hoisted the trysail. After that Gipsy Moth certainly was cracking along. I logged: “We shall get the lee deck thoroughly submerged with this sail up.”
My elbow was very painful next morning, but I managed to hoist the mainsail after dropping the trysail. I left the bandage on my arm because it seemed to help, and it protected the place from knocks to a certain, extent. At noon I could log triumphantly: “Well! We’ve done it. A run of 179 miles today makes a total for the week of 1,215.”
That called for a celebration, and Father Neptune and I got at the keg again. Father Nep deserved a toast, because it needed an extraordinary, once-in-a-lifetime set of conditions for a single-handed boat to do so well. There was enough wind without the usual bad sea that goes with it, the wind from the right direction, and also the fair certainty that neither the wind nor the sea would suddenly increase to knock the boat down. So I drew a glass for Neptune as well as for myself, and tossed his into the ocean for him. (I shouldn’t be surprised if he becomes a regular customer of Whitbreads after this voyage.)
I was sailing almost exactly along the old clipper way for April. The sea was a darker blue, and on May 5 Gipsy Moth began passing through lanes of sargasso weed, yellowy brown rows of it, trailing downwind. There was still a fresh breeze from NE by ½N. I had reached the edge of the North-East Trade Wind belt. (Isn’t the French word for it, Alizé, much nicer and more expressive?) And I was enjoying what I assumed to be a last gallop through it. Noon brought another big run of 180 miles. A hunk of sargasso weed caught astride the self-steering oar, and I could not see how it would become dislodged. There was too much pressure of water for me to pole it off, but I decided to have a go if it was still there later on.
Gipsy Moth was back at her bloody pet trick of either sliding off to leeward, or coming up into the wind and stopping dead. At 21.00 I logged:
“Hell! I have been at that trimming off and on since about 16.00. This afternoon I wanted a sleep after lunch. The boat had been going perfectly well till then, but five times, as soon as I got into my bunk and was dropping off to sleep, she came up into the wind, and would have got into irons if I had not dealt with her. With all the hauling of sheets etc, my elbow is now very painful.”
During the night I had to get up and hunt out some codeine as my arm was too painful to let me sleep. I read a chapter of Tarka the Otter by my old friend, Henry Williamson. It was an account of Tarka’s being hunted and I found it just as excellent today as when it was first written.
The run at noon on M
ay 6 was 175 miles. That afternoon I sailed out of the Trade Wind belt. It had lasted longer than I had expected, and as a result I was now 200 miles west of the April Clipper Way. I suppose the clippers waited until the North-East Trades petered out before turning north. In the last 8 days Gipsy Moth had reeled off 1,416½ miles practically in a straight line. This was an average speed of 177 miles per day or 7½ knots4 I think this was the easiest sail I had on the voyage, and in the most pleasant weather.
Maria Blewitt has navigated yachts in the Fastnet and many other ocean races. She is the author of several manuals of navigation for yachtsmen.
Back to Text
If you tilt your chair at an angle of 35° and imagine living for nine days with your kitchen, dining room and bedroom tilted at that angle, and then suppose that it is all being bumped about like an iron-wheeled cart pulled over boulders, you will get a fair idea how uncomfortable life was in Gipsy Moth.
Back to Text
In fact I had bursitis as well as two small chips of bone off the elbow.
Gipsy Moth Circles the World Page 25
