Alone Across the Atlantic

by Francis Chichester

  Then I worked out the two sun shots I got yesterday. The result? The sun fix was 98 miles east (080° /98 miles to be exact) of the DR position. This was a bit of a shaker at first glance and I was preparing to be more gloomy when I remembered the North Atlantic current, the continuation of the Gulf Stream. I studied the US hydrographic chart for June and found it recorded that the current flows at 0· 4 of a knot in one part of the area I was working in and ½ knot in the other half. Splitting the difference at ·45 of a knot over the whole area, eight days of this works out at 8 days × 24 hours × ·45 knots = 86.4 miles. This reduced the discrepancy to a tolerable figure and I was less wreathed in gloom. (I must go and tack; the wind has backed.)

  9. June 29th to July 2nd

  Fine Day – The Mauretania – Unable to Signal – Nearing the

  Grand Banks – Iadigo Blue Sea – Squalls and Splashes – Fathers’

  Day in Mid-Atlantic – The Five Loaves – In the Gulf Stream

  – Barometer and Braces – High Jinks in the Night – The Giant

  Shadow – Listening to Canada – No Ice Reports – Sailing

  Again after Gale – Loss of the Thermos – The Pleasure of

  Overcoming Difficulties

  29th June. 1145 BST. It is fine today – so far – I’m sitting in the cockpit with my tankard of Guinness to hand. The cabin looks like chaos cubed but I felt I must stop for a while or I’d go round the bend.

  Yesterday I never got back to my blue book and red pen. It was just one thing after the other. Here is the bare bones of it. Changed tack 1800 hrs. Rain, nasty weather, wind steadily increasing. 1900 changed from genoa to No. 2 jib and the ship sailed faster because there had been too much wind for the big sail. 2000 hrs. finished fully reefing the mainsail. Fed-up. No more sail changes tonight. If forced I will hand the existing ones but nothing else is to go up before dawn.

  Worried about poor Miranda’s stays, they are so loose. What has she been up to, poor gal? She is flogging about much too much in this blast of air coming approximately direct from New York. I refastened most of her stays for her by use of lanyards.

  At 2050 hrs. the Mauretania passed looking very solid and rather majestic in the dirty grey weather. I rushed for my Aldis lamp to signal and ask to be reported. Hell! the electrics are fused. No masthead light to signal with either. I looked at my hand-torch but it was laughable to think of a ship seeing it from a mile away. I tried Morse with a tea-towel but the wind made that into a joke. It is not decreed, I believe, that I should send a message.

  She sounded off with three blasts of her foghorn and was on her way, leaving me a trifle forlorn. I must have looked like a shipwrecked character drawn by Thurber waving that tea-towel. No one could have deduced I was trying to signal. I relied on the Aldis lamp and had no hoist of flags ready (MIK), asking to be reported to Lloyds. I was left behind to horrible grey skies and every look of another gale. Don’t they have any fine weather in this hemisphere?

  Ah! Noon! Day’s run. Log reads 1632, making a day’s run of 104 miles. Now becalmed. I must lower mainsail, which is doing itself no good slatting, and interferes with my Guinness enjoyment. I thought I had better snap the sun with the sextant at the same time in case it gets clouded over later. We are slowly nearing the Grand Banks and could easily not have a sight of the sun for a fortnight because of fog.

  After Mauretania left me to my blues among all the greys, I tried to call her up on the R/T, but no luck.

  I cooked the dinner and was just starting to eat it when the wind veered to put us on a northerly course. I couldn’t enjoy my fried cod’s roe with accessories if we were sailing at right angles to the direction of New York. So I left the feast, dressed again in full kit of rainwear and tacked ship.

  The weather looked horrible with those beastly dreaded black standing squalls here and there. This was at 2235 hrs. BST. and soon after midnight I turned in for a miserable night. Gipsy Moth had one of her pig-jumping bouts. I suppose she’s young, only launched last September and must have her fling, slinging her weight about. It was one of those nasty short seas like you get off the east coast of England.

  Gipsy M. would prance up to a sea and pig-jump it. This caused me to take off from my berth for an instant. Then she’d land, slam! on the other side of the wave which meant for me thumping back on the bunk. She would vary this by twisting on the way up the wave which made my wretched body roll hard against one side of the berth or the other. Add to this the whine of the wind in the rigging and the flogging of the jib leech in extra strong gusts and you have the finest ingredients for a good night’s unrest.

  I got up at once at 0120 for a squall, saying, half-asleep, that I must hand the mainsail. Then I thought, no, with this reduced rig the spars would stand a gale easily, and if the No. 2 jib blows itself out it is the only sail among my suit of sails which I really cannot grow fond of. As far as I am concerned it can blow itself to hell. With which conclusion I reblanketed myself.

  Miranda kept the ship headed west for 8½ hours while I loafed among the blankets and I got up at 8.30 to find the sun shining but squalls still about. During the night Gipsy M. had done 37 miles in 8½ hours – 471⁄3 knots, which is as good as I could hope for in a slamming sea, hard on the wind, in squally conditions, with the main fully reefed and the owner below. (The sea has that deep indigo blue today which is so attractive.)

  As soon as I got up this morning I decided to time my headsail changes and unreefing. I fancy this is where my Viking black-bearded rival will gain on me. It is a major operation for me to change headsails, or reef, and the ship almost stands still as soon as the headsail is lowered.

  In my last yacht Gipsy Moth II, an 8-tonner, it only took me about a quarter of the time to reef as it does for this 13-tonner. I admit I aim for a better reefed sail now. This one sets beautifully when I have reefed it using my arrangement of tackle and shock-cord to haul the leech out tight.

  Pity the poor yachtsman. At every sail change or trim, if racing, he has to achieve an ideal aerofoil, that is, make the sail take the shape of one, which eluded the greatest scientists and mathematicians from the time of Leonardo da Vinci, till that of de Havilland or thereabouts.

  Changing No. 2 jib to genoa, including change of sheet lead and rigging a preventer on the mainsail boom, also trimming the sail and Miranda to get on course afterwards, took 19 minutes starting from the cabin sole.

  Unreefing the main took me 21 minutes but I had some bad management to contend with during the operation. After getting the main hoisted I found the top batten was foul of the R/T aerial so I had to lower the sail, slack away the R/T halliard and then make them both up again. Of course this was in nice conditions. Any fool can set the sail, it’s taking it off which needs the seaman.

  30th June. 1300 hrs. BST (or about 2 hours 40 minutes earlier local time). I’m somewhat diffident about this drop into the ordinary humdrum of life, but I must admit that when I awoke at 1100 hrs. this morning I was exhausted. Perhaps I should have had a cup of coffee or something before going on deck, but I hate to neglect good sailing-wind which I could hear it was.

  I had trouble in getting the main hoisted. I just had run out of sheer muscle-power. Of course I made it much worse by letting the ship come about during the operation, with resultant chaos, jib aback, sheets flogging, mainboom hard up against the standing runner and so on and so forth. Don’t all we yachtsmen know it? But you would think I ought to be able to avoid it after these weeks of handling the ship.

  I do miss having no burgee or racing-flag or anything at the masthead. With one’s head down messing about with halliards, winch and cleats at the mast it is difficult to be aware all the time of where the wind is, to know if the ship is turning etc. I’m used to glancing at the burgee aloft every now and then to check that all is right. Not only was the burgee blown to bits and then stripped off its wire hoist but the flag halliard parted when I came to lower the burgee stick and the stick disappeared.

  Eventually I got the mai
n up except for a baggy pocket at the foot of the luff. John Illingworth, one of the world’s two leading ocean racers with Carlton Mitchell, would never let such a thing happen. I only wish John could take over for a day and put everything right for me.

  I decided to get my breakfast and try for the last few inches of hoist thereafter. But it will not be for some time because I am moving slowly today. My first cup of coffee I stupidly upset. (One more cup and then I’ll really call a committee meeting to see whether it is time to start the toil again.)

  What’s so depressing is that all this exhaustion talk stems from the efforts made to get almost nowhere. Tack, tack, tack; north-west gradually headed to north, tack to SW. but almost never able to head for New York, WSW. For every 100 miles sailed NW. or SW. I only approach New York by 70 miles; in fact, don’t even do that because the adverse Atlantic current is all the time carrying us back along our course from England at approximately ten miles a day.

  Even if headed direct for New York at 5 knots one must sail two hours out of every twenty-four hours simply to counter the current. But if the wind is from the New York direction and one can only head within 45 ° of it one side or the other it requires three hours’sailing every day simply to counter the current. In the last five days to yesterday, thanks to the storms, squalls, gales and adverse winds and to the owner going asleep we have only advanced 190 miles along our route. We’ll probably arrive in 1961 at that rate. Our heading at the moment 240° compass is 45 ° off the required course of 285 °.

  Last night was even more disastrous from a racing point of view, than usual. At midnight I decided we were carrying too much sail, so changed from genoa to No. 2 jib and lowered and furled the main. Handling that main in the dark and in a disturbed sea is really a job for Hercules or my black-bearded Viking friend rather than for me, especially the boom.

  While hanging on to it to tie the furled sail to it and it swings from port to starboard due to a snap-over roll, the blow in the chest when it comes up against the end of its swing is a real grunt-maker. I hated cutting down the sail area but I was proved right when a gale-strength squall hit us in the middle of the night. I was aroused with a terrific crash … a clash of crockery, etc. and water in my face where I lay on the settee berth.

  In the dark I wondered whatever had happened. When I found out, the only thing to do was laugh. I had a bucket hanging from a hook under a cabin port the other side of the cabin from where I was lying. It was catching the water from a biggish leak there and I emptied it about once a day. When heeled at 40° it was nearly over my head. Gipsy Moth, while so heeled had taken one of her famous Bechers Brook jumps over a big wave and what could be more effective than a bucket of water with a few cups and glasses added for sound effects, landing in one’s face while asleep?

  I found the course had crept round to north so I dressed in oilskins and tacked. The squall died down while I was up and I had a lot of trouble to get trimmed without Miranda. I did not want her engaged for the rest of the night for fear of her getting damaged in more storm-squalls.

  In a short clearing in the sky I saw the new moon on her back. Thank heaven, we shall have some worthwhile moonlight in a few days’time. There were a lot of combers about and when the wind dropped in a lull I was surprised how long I could hear them coming with a steady hiss, not very loud before they struck the ship.

  Several times after I got back to my berth I turned out again to try and trim. Gipsy M. began turning in complete circles and after listening to four of these waiting each time she came back to 240 ° on the compass to see if she was going round again or going to settle, I finally had to get up again. I was so fed up with the beastly dressing and undressing in clammy wet oilskins and sea-boots that I went out in a shirt and underpants only. But later I wondered if that was wise straight from warm blankets. However, my hurt chest seems better, which is wonderful news for me and really nothing else matters by comparison.

  Well, once more into the breeches, dear friends, once more, to continue delaying our arrival in New York by endless dodging of the contrary blast there from.

  I have made medical history: every joint this morning is made of malleable lead.

  I forgot to say why last night was more disastrous; under the jib only the ship will not point within 45° of the wind, but more like 70 ° so that all my loss of sleep, loss of good sailing wind while asleep this morning and general sapping of my moral marrow fat is simply in order to keep the ship headed no worse than 220° compass which amounts to nearly due south (true direction) when New York lies at nearly west.

  Finally, thank you for listening to my moans, you have done me a power of good.

  1735 hrs. Gone dreary despair and dull cares. I decided this was Father’s Day in mid-Atlantic. No more sail-changing today or press-on nonsense of that sort. First I retired to the Hammam, making sure the door would not slam unexpectedly on my person and had a good freshwater bath. This is a bold way of describing a wash all over with flannel, water and soap.

  I can assure you it was a most acrobatic ablution with the ship at her usual bucking tricks. After that a shave which saw the death of a new razor blade. Then, oh! luxury! a clean set of clothes. Oh, yes, I can see your lips curling in a sneer only suppressed through your gentlemanly instincts, but clean clothes are not too easy on a jaunt like this. Either you must make your stock last as long as the voyage which may require quite a number of changes, or else you must start a laundry. So far I have not had the time to spare for the latter. In any case I still have not got dry the pair of Dr Deimel’s underwear which I put out hopefully about June 17th. So if it takes more than eighteen days to dry one pair of pants I think a laundry might be rather exasperating.

  Then I opened up the sacks of potatoes and onions in the forepeak, both saturated in seawater like my hat there. After opening up the potato sack I feel I ought to have some nice new potatoes to eat by the time I reach New York.

  I also fished out all my remaining loaves, cut off the mildew which meant a slice up to half an inch thick off every side of the loaf. The five loaves remaining are now in my portable oven on the Primus having a second baking. Whether this is a success I will tell you later. If not, I must bake afresh, but this does require a lot of attention over quite a long period. Perhaps the next weather prank will be a calm for a week in which case baking will be one of the first chores.

  Next I sat down to a very satisfying lunch of Chinook salmon with new potatoes and some onion followed by Danish blue cheese. Setting genoa and all that racing nonsense is off La Carte for today; I feel I would purr if I could after my lunch, without a care.

  Looking back, it is odd why I should have been so uneasy and unhappy last night. I suppose I expected the squall we had and it would have been very embarrassing in the middle of the night with a full suit of sails set.

  1st July. 0040 hrs. I shall have to get a move on as this seems to be my last blue book left to write in. I have just come in after finishing my deck work, tidying up to see that all the running parts of halliards are clear, the dinghy lashings in good order, rigging the riding lamp, etc. Then I tacked to port tack again and hope I am right.

  My BC (best course) is now 280 ° on the compass (which is 265 ° true). I was getting down to 225° compass on the starboard tack, and am now on 335° on the other. Sometimes heading better but that is a fair assessment; the seas keep on casting the ship’s head off and if I keep her hard on the wind under Miranda’s control, the seas slow her up too much. Both tacks are equally bad at the moment, but the point is which way will the wind go? I think it will back to the SW. from west where it is now. If I’m right I’ll have, I hope, a peaceful night; if not, I’ll have to tack again.

  The seas seem much nastier on this tack, I can’t understand why, because I had a good look before tacking and they were coming exactly downwind and therefore should be the same for Gipsy M. on either tack. The seawater is warm and this combined with the muggy overcast weather and nasty squalls I take to indicate we
are in Gulf Stream water. I think the deep clear blue is another sign.

  Why all this nastiness? I say; why can’t it mix more with our chilly northern water without endless squalling and turbulence? With all its natural gifts coming from the West Indies one would like it to be benign, gracious and calm as well as warm. Just imagine if one had a teeny-weeny part of it welling up on the south coast of England. That lovely warm tropical sea bathing. I’ll turn in but fear this W. Indian water means another bumpy night.

  Sad PS. I dropped my barometer tonight and bust it; an old friend which has been with me on all my flights starting in 1929 and all my sea voyages and races.

  Happy PS. I made myself a pair of braces for my oilskin deck-pants with enormous success. These trousers always worked their way down however hard I belted them up. The number of times those damn things have hindered, hampered and harassed me by beginning to slip just as I got into a tizzie on the foredeck in the dark and wet. It is another of those music-hall chestnuts which are based on personal tragedy.

  1500 hrs. (1200 local time.) Is it still only July 1st? It seems days ago since it started at midnight. I did get to sleep about half-past one but at 0230 I was woken by a thunderous crash of a sea on board, got up, dressed in allies and went on deck to see if anything serious had happened. Not a thing visible out of place, not to say smashed. I was astonished. However from then on it was high jinks for the rest of the night.

  First I found we were only doing 2·8 knots which was all wrong. Try as I would I could not trim her. Of course, the reason is probably quite plain to you as it is to me now, but either I was stupid, roused from sleep or I have been getting more used to high winds. She was being overpowered by the wind and refusing to move. At 0300 hrs. I decided to tack; the other tack was of equal value, the wind, as usual, being right in the eye looking in the direction of New York. I thought the ship went better, with less crashing about on the starboard tack.