If there is a place more beautiful than the Beaulieu River on a night like this after a fine May day, I would like to know it. The moon shines bright in the water. A wee tip of a stake sticks out in line with the twilit sky with a long V of ripples where the incoming tide strikes it. Otherwise all the trees and the stars are perfectly reflected. Meanwhile several nightingales sing at their best a hundred yards away. Occasionally there is a plop! as a fish jumps. I wonder if sea-trout are on the move.
I was thinking the old query, ‘Is Fate too strong for a man’s self-will?’ Am I so happy because I am doing the sort of thing I was destined for? How I enjoyed – no, that’s not right because I hated a lot of it or was scared stiff – my flying. No, I should say, how it satisfied me!
I’d flown through forty-eight countries, I think it was, by myself. And, apart from the flying, that represents an immense amount of preparation and expenditure of energy. At the end I said I’d had enough travelling to last a lifetime. Also – don’t laugh – I’d spent on flying all the money I had saved. So I suppose I had to settle down to work. No, that’s nonsense, I could surely have taken a job or something to get into an expedition going somewhere interesting like the South Pole if I had really wanted to.
Somehow I never seemed to enjoy so much doing things with other people. I know now I don’t do a thing nearly as well when with someone. It makes me think I was cut out for solo jobs and any attempt to diverge from that lot only makes me a half-person. It looks as if the only way to be happy is to do fully what you are destined for.
A chap came alongside today and said he wanted to ask me for various details about the race. Was it still a requirement that your boat must be painted bright yellow, he hated yellow. I learnt that he is interested to enter for the race and was considering buying Gwynneth, a boat in this river. I said he had better get cracking.
With four and a half weeks to go I shall have difficulty in being fully ready, though I have been preparing for months. How is he going to buy a boat now and get it ready? I looked at Gwynneth in Lloyds and found she was built thirty-five years ago and is only 8½ inches longer overall than at the water line. On paper she does not sound the boat for a big ocean race against boats built for the job.
I phoned Jack Giles today. I suppose he has designed more ocean racers than anyone else bar Olin Stevens of the U.S.A. I gather that Humphrey Barton is a pretty sure starter in Rose of York, a 12-tonner Channel Class boat designed by Laurent Giles. He ought to be a hot favourite. Especially as he sailed the same route in a Vertue with O’Riordan as crew in forty-seven days. He has been sailing and ocean racing all his life, could not be better qualified to win a race like this one.
Rose of York was built by John Tyrrell & Sons of Arklow, who built Gipsy Moth III. Humphrey offered to bring round my second spinnaker boom but Jack Giles said he had only launched Rose of York last week. So I wrote Jack Tyrrell and asked him to send my boom over by air or sea as soon as possible. I want to try out twin-boomed headsails before June 11th, not after.
I phoned Sheila as usual tonight and she told me that the trimaran builder from California is setting out for England tomorrow with a crew of two others. He is entering the race on June 11th. With the catamaran, we are beginning to get an interesting field.
23rd May. Arrived down yesterday afternoon after eleven days of office life. Tidied up the yacht somewhat and met Chris Brasher for dinner at the Master Builders. He had been sailing with David Lewis in Cardinal Vertue and with Blondie Hasler in Jester. He was very impressed with David’s boat and its self-steering. He thought Blondie’s boat remarkable and was most enthusiastic about it. Empty hull. Unstayed mast. One sail which was incredibly easy to handle, reef, set, or lower. Very fast, has outsailed ‘an ocean racer’. Hum, h’m.
Gipsy Moth was on the boatyard’s piles where they had been working on the wind vane that same day. There was quite a lot to do to get the wind vane fully rigged, and to extricate the yacht from between two others with a fairly strong tide running. Chris had to leave at 1.30. However, with a lot of help from him we got away, down the river, across the Solent and back and upriver to my mooring on time. Chris is a natural, sailed the boat well and carried out every bit of helmsmanship and seamanship which I asked him to without fault.
Miranda took charge for a romp across the Solent full and bye, but coming back on a broad reach which turned into a dead run, she would not take control. Kept on coming up into the wind or, if I put bias on the rudder, she ran off downwind sometimes. I was disappointed. One wants more time and longer runs than across the Solent to get the hang of it. I must get out again and have some good practice. Miranda has now been stayed and braced and the clamp improved with a lever to engage the vane arm to the rotatable mast. Chris left at 1.30. He is good company and interesting about mountaineering. I think he enjoyed himself.
I started work on the yacht. One has a pretty desperate feeling on coming back. There seems an impossible amount to do and it all seems futile. This is all nonsense of course or should I say ‘It is just life’. The only thing to do is to get started on one of the many jobs and then on another one, then it will seem easier and less futile after a while. If one gives way to this desolate feeling and packs up one goes back to the herd. Nothing will be achieved.
I have Sheila’s photo standing up and my ‘smoking’hanging in the ‘hanger’compartment. It will become a home soon. Kippers and stout for tea. Bags of hard work tomorrow.
4. June 11th to 15th
We are Off – The Start – Wet Jumble Below – Knocked About
– Sail Changes in a Gale – G.M. Steers Herself – A Spell of
Sunshine – Squalls – Miranda Saved – Treble Reefed Main –
Are Trysails Any Use? – A Fish Visitor – Going South? – News
of Blondie and David – Slow Progress in Summery Conditions
– Water everywhere – Biscuits or Medicaments – Toe Trouble
– Dirty Morning – Struggling with Sails – Headwind Again –
Tilley on Stern – Electricity Gone – Ostriches or Emus? –
Dining with Difficulties
11th June. 1109 hrs. Enjoying a whisky and lime plus biscuits, after strenuous start. No particular blacks. Must have had race fever because I could not eat any breakfast, but had two Sea-legs (anti-seasick pills) instead. Will probably shake out reef after refreshment. Feel better already. Stowed Plymouth charts.
I only cursed one boat for baulking me at the starting-line, my friend the ex-King’s Harbour Master whom I sat next to at dinner. He was baulking me just before the starting-gun and I said, ‘I wish you’d get to hell out of it.’ Of course I wish now I hadn’t said it. The Navy moved away one trawler loaded with sightseers. It is something to have to dodge launches, one’s rivals, etc. as well as get across a starting-line single-handed.
Things went fairly well but of course it takes me longer to set sail and the small boats got away ahead of me. Blondie’s boat looked quaint. I saluted them all. David tacked inshore after the breakwater. He was well to windward of me then and not far behind. My hat! that whisky was good.… I must have another! 1545. I streamed the log 40 miles after the start.
1738 hrs. Much to my disgust find I should tack as the port tack is nearer the Great Circle course of 275°. Feel awful, but had a cup of tea and a few cream crackers.
12th June. 1630 hrs. Written over a cup of Brooke Bond in a bag which you hang in the cup and pour water on. I wish I could light the Aladdin oil stove. Well, why not? Hold on while I try.… It seems to be working all right.
Everything that isn’t wet is damp and clammy. My lovely boat. What a mess! My wet clothes piled on the floor. Stuff jumbled everywhere. Bang! Occasional waves hit the hull so that you think it’s the Queen Mary. It is impossible to stand up anywhere without using a handhold. Anyway I feel better. Seasickness stopped and not faced with any horrible manoeuvre at present.
If anyone is short of exercise I can recommend furling a 385-square-foot
mainsail of heavy Terylene in a gale. No, it’s not too bad but by the time the other jobs demanded by a gale have been finished you feel you’ve had a run-around. First, lowering the mainboom to the deck and lashing it. Then setting the trysail with a four-part tackle to bowse it down and two three-part tackles for sheets all with heavy double blocks. Then there’s the wind-vane spanker to hand which involves some nice finger-work while the vane dashes too and fro with the changing blasts of the wind. Then, set a storm jib – fairly simple by comparison.
At last the boat is sailing along fairly satisfactorily even if damned slowly with trysail and No. 3 jib. She gets a bit temperamental now and then when two or three big seas hit her one after the other and she then tacks herself. Twice I got out of the bunk, put on big boots, oilskin trousers and coat, hat and towel round neck to get her back on course. The second time I found to my astonishment, arriving late, that she had sailed herself right round in a circle and come back on course again. So next time I stayed in my berth and watched this amusing antic reflected in the tell-tale compass.
I propose keeping on this course estimated at 225° (sw.) with the storm rig set until this little storm blows itself out.
I can do with an easy time tonight. Apart from fatigue my chest is fairly sore. After bashing the right breast when the lavatory door burst open and I shot across the companionway, I was in the cockpit steadying myself against the hatch when it slipped forward a foot and the top corner of the cabin door stabbed me in the left breast. Never a dull moment!
13th June. 0220 hrs. Woke reluctantly and dressed in full kit. 2 a.m. Hell of a night on deck. Force 8/9 gale. Driving rain. Lumpy seas bashing the hull. But the crew seemed quite happy. Miranda unfettered, i.e. out of use. Tilley shining a lovely white light on the sails (I repumped her) but she is dimming. I guess her bottle refill is ending. Only old Log unhappy, tied up in knots and only registering 3½ miles from 2320 to 0220 hrs. Whereas I should say we are doing 6 knots at present.
Thank heaven and Marston Tickell (who made me take it) for the trysail with its powerful treble-part tackles, port and starboard, to the clew of the sail! She seems to be self-steering well enough with this rig, course about 220°-260° but she did a complete 360 ° turn while I was on deck so I hardened the weather tiller-line slightly. It may mean a few degrees’worse course, but worth it if it prevents the shattering flapping of the trysail when she tacks herself.
Will have a cup of hot water in thermos with some sugar in it. Took two Sea-legs at 2330 but still queasy. No food except a few biscuits, etc. since the day before the start, i. e. three days ago.
2240 hrs. Seems much quieter on deck now; it must have been a squall. I would have been badly placed if I had had normal canvas set.
I have found that by stripping down the upper part of my oilskin – PVC really – trousers over the long sea-boots (calf high, I mean) I can take off the boots and trousers together and put them on together next time. Trying to draw oilskin trousers over boots or under boots in a yacht in a gale is no joke.
0255 hrs. Poked my nose out: it is still pretty foul weather. Thank heavens for my crew carrying on while the skipper takes to his berth. I not only have the cabin doors closed tight but have stuffed an old copy of the Daily Express into the ventilation opening to keep down the inrush of clean, untainted air, Force 8, into the cabin.
0830 hrs. Monday morning … and the sun shining … I’m drinking tea after waking and life seems it might be good. I could have done with even more sleep. I woke once about 5.0 and thought I ought to crack on more sail but thank heavens there was the father and mother of a squall – wang! bonck! What a lovely lullaby, seas crashing against the hull. Spluuuunnnchch! as the bow seems to drop into a trough. I estimated it took thirty seconds after a sea had broken on deck before the water finished running out of the lee scuppers. Anyway it was good enough for me to turn over and sleep on.
I’d like to have gone on sleeping now but I thought of that damn black-bearded Viking cracking on sail. No fatigue trouble for him! He may have a smaller boat, but be sure he is sailing it at its maximum speed every minute. What a grand chap.
I’m stiff and sore and tired. Both sides of my chest hurt from the blows I had. I cut my scalp on the ceiling (my own fault). I really ought to try one of David Lewis’s concoctions on it, some dehydrated ointment I should think. I had an insult of an injury too. The heads door slammed and caught the pelt over my ribs in a damn painful pinch. What an indignity to be caught by the skin in a doorway!
Hullo … she’s tacked herself and is boxing the compass again. You may wonder why I sit here writing. One, I’m sipping tea and infusing a bit of joy to the system. Two, I’m listening and assessing what sail I can set. It’s no joke to make a mistake in this sea – it’s a laborious job for me to change sails.
As I write we are going into a black-clouded squall so it’s a good job I was not in too much of a hurry, Blackbeard or no Blackbeard.
As you may guess my sea-sickness has gone, thank heaven, and I can think of serious toil. My last meal was that fine farewell dinner at Pedro’s in Plymouth on Friday night. With the sunshine I feel the weather must be on the point of improving fast, squall or not.
1050 hrs. I still have not changed up any sails and another squall is on us now. I have reset Miranda and been watching her performance. I have too little sail up but the squalls are very tricky. Will have a meal and think again. Softlee softlee catchee monkey, I say.
At 0030 hrs. I was woken up by the boat tacking herself with Miranda set, topsail and spanker. I rushed on deck but not in time to counter the tack. However, I topped up Miranda so that she would not be smashed against the backstay if she sailed round in a circle. I’m not satisfied about her conduct, naughty girl. I then set to and lowered the trysail. Then hoisted the – Crikey! The whole ocean seemed to dump on top of the boat; I jumped in my seat, but marvellous! none below – well, I hoisted the main triple reefed. The boat began to sail.
I’m not sure my old theory about a trysail isn’t right. Better to set no sail till you can hoist the main again. Trysail speed is so slow and takes so much out of the crew to hoist and lower. It took me an hour and a half to do those two jobs, trysail and main and damned hard work hanging on like a monkey the whole time.
I found a fish washed on board. True it was only a baby sardine but still a fish. Then I studied Miranda. The handle which clamps the vane mast to the vane arms which pull the tiller from side to side was being unclamped when it came up against the backstay. I hacksawed off a piece. Then I found the clamp was slipping, which may have accounted for M’s lapses from good behaviour.
This was a difficult job on the counter with the stern dancing every way and swishes of water coming over the stern deck from waves hitting the foredeck. Although it only involved removing a spring and washer and sawing off part of a bolt it was awkward and took time. I felt that depressing despair that we all get; but the job was done at last with no vital parts washed overboard.
My best course for New York is 288° magnetic so the course we are on at present of 240 ° is as good as the other tack. I never meant to go south but perhaps it is fate. That sardine and the sun make me think of flying fish for breakfast compared with possibly 1,600 miles of fog on the Great Circle route to Cape Race. I should think that black-bearded Viking must be ahead of me at present. He can change his sails in a twink and has no fatigue problems.
I heard on the BBC when listening for a time signal and weather forecast that Blondie has passed the Lizard yesterday afternoon. (My word! Some whacking big seas hit the hull at times.) I reckon I was about 45 miles SW. of it at one o’clock yesterday afternoon. David, the BBC said, had lost his mast and returned to Plymouth for repairs before setting out again.
14th June. 1310 hrs. This is very pleasant; the sun trying to push through a layer of summer white cumulus high up; south breeze; but as for racing weather.… To start with the breeze like all the wind we have had so far is from New York, so with gale or ligh
t air and Miranda in charge we cannot point within 55° of New York.
So far it’s the slowest race I can remember off-hand. At 1130 this morning I was only 186 miles SW. of Plymouth after three days. Can I believe it? It seems incredible.
At 0900 hrs. (I didn’t get to sleep till 4 a.m.) when I woke, I found the yacht headed 340°-350 ° compass so decided the SW. tack better. So I tacked to starboard tack again but first set the big genoa in place of the 225-square-foot No. 2 jib. The Genny is 385 square feet. Then I had breakfast of toast with some of Mrs Philip Yonge’s scrumptious home-made Devonshire butter, grapefruit and coffee.
Then I found the SW. course had dropped to 210 ° compass so decided the north-west tack better and tacked again to 325° compass. But now, later she is only sailing 335 ° compass which is just as bad as it could be, i.e. the wind is dead on the nose for New York and only a light breeze. I shall not be there till autumn at this rate. It would take about sixty days anyway.
I surveyed the boat.… It does seem incredible to me: I reckoned this was a watertight boat without a leak other than (1) one place over the port side pilot berth which I and the boatyard have both tried to cure; (2) a weep at one corner of the forehatch over my berth in the fore cabin; (3) a good deal of leak from the foreward end of the cockpit onto the bridge deck below. I cured a lot of that one with a patent seam-sealer which is squeezed out of a tube like toothpaste. Other than that the yacht was bone dry and I had pumped no water out of her in three months afloat.
But when I look round this morning, the whole cabin sole in forecabin, main cabin and heads looks as if it had been out in a shower of rain. Every wall that I can see is dotted completely with water drops as if caught out in a quick shower of rain. They show clearly an angle of heel, i.e. slope. It appears that every wall in the boat is streaked. Where did it come from? I can see where a good deal came through the ventilators and where the mast passes through the cabin roof but I can not understand how each wall is streaked or spotted all over. I can only think that the tremendous weight of heavy seas bursting on deck temporarily opened timber seams and shot through a shower of spray.
Alone Across the Atlantic Page 4
