My R/ T set gives a very good reception when it does pick up a station. It is a question of range. Look how St John’s came in loud and clear but the day before, not a sound. At night the range is considered to be doubled. I wish I could get an ice report; that is really all I want from the radio at the moment. I can’t see any point in trying to report my position now. No, I’m wrong there, Sheila and my friends may be anxious about my silence. I will keep on trying to get a message through.
If you come around to the Grand Banks in a year’s time you may see me there still tacking against light head-winds and against the current. My position has not changed much in two days. At present I’m doing 1½ knots in a direction I don’t want to go, with a current of ½ knot against me from the direction in which I do want to go. St John’s radio forecasts a southerly wind on the Grand Banks today which would suit me fine, but they say it will become a SW. this afternoon, which is again right in the eye from New York.
The only thing to do is to relax and enjoy oneself if one can. I have found the remains of a bottle of sherry and a jar of pickled gherkins, but I don’t think sherry is a sea drink. This afternoon I must do some housework or go fishing or both.
2030 hrs. St John’s time. I had two surprises today. The first was when I saw a long low island in the foggy mist. As a navigator thinking himself 360 miles from the nearest land, you can imagine I was surprised. Visibility had improved and was about a mile. It was in fact a big swell looming in the mist. One doesn’t notice the movements of these big swells at all in a small boat and I had not seen them before because of the thick fog.
The fog cleared today and it was clear and sunny, but we were at once becalmed. I am not happy tonight. I measured the distance still to go as 1,340 miles and we have sailed 18 miles in the past fourteen hours, and not even in the right direction. I spent part of the day doing my housework, checking over the stores, throwing out mouldy oranges, etc. I find I have only three bottles of meths left. Tilley light has been an unexpected drain on meths. I have plenty of water; my big tank of 35 gallons is nearly full and I did not bother to measure the other one which I am still using.
I had some difficulty in lifting the wooden trap in the cabin sole to inspect the water tank. The floor boards are jammed tight together with the wet. Underneath, the boards were mildewed. But that’s nothing; when I came to sweep out the cabin I found mildew all over the place on the cabin sole, under the table etc. What can one expect with no drying air for three weeks, and wet pouring in through every opening and cranny.
I fished. I could not leave the Grand Banks (but shall I ever leave them?) without fishing first. I used a feather lure with no success and then I tried a mackerel spinner with no more success. That reminds me of my second surprise. I heard a sort of deep sigh and came up on deck for a look-see during dinner.
Fifteen feet away four whales dived beneath the surface. I could have prodded one with a boathook. They looked awfully black and sleek and powerful and my first thought was ‘Are you friendly?’ I was puzzled when I had had a good look. They were smaller than the 70 feet one expects a whale to be but much too big for the kind of porpoise I have met. I think they were 15 to 25 feet long. They were very black looking; would they be blackfish? I suppose they are all whales but one thinks of a 70-foot sperm or suchlike when whale is mentioned. I estimated there were about a hundred of them.
I pulled in my log as fast as I could in case of accident to it. Besides, it would be bad for the whale’s digestion. I concluded too that this was a broad hint that the fishing-ground here was exclusively theirs. I took the hint and hauled in my tackle. My impression was that all or most of all the whales in the pack came up in turn to investigate Gipsy Moth and then after ten minutes or a quarter of an hour as if at a signal, they all dived together and vanished.
I have seldom known a yachtsman to fish. Especially an ocean racer. I wonder why. I think perhaps that the life on the sea makes one friendly towards everything living in it. I know this afternoon I was secretly hoping I wouldn’t catch anything, although the old hunting-instinct made me keen to try. Civilization has knotted us up in this respect. What about fishermen though? I can’t work it out.
I set my ghoster genoa when there was a zephyr at the end of the calm. I have never used it before. It set beautifully and pulled quite hard when there was not enough wind to make Miranda move at all. That reminds me I must go and change it to the heavy genoa before it is quite dark. I don’t want to risk it being pulled out of shape by a strong wind while I am asleep.
2200 hrs. It is lovely at present, calm sea, fine cloud formation and a gibbous moon showing through, twilight just turning to dark, the ship gliding through the water with a silky rustle, a squeaky bird flying about and making queer squeaky mewing sounds when I show a light as if it wanted to talk.
We are headed about SSW. but I am hoping the wind will veer shortly and put the ship on to a westerly course without waking me up. I think we have gone far enough south now to avoid the ice. I assume it must have receded somewhat northwards since the June 8th report.
5th July. 0925 hrs. St John’s time. That was a good sail last night. 58½ miles in 9 hours, of which 5 hours at 7 knots. You may well say, ‘Why don’t I always sleep if Miranda and Gipsy Moth get on so well when I’m not there?’ I must tell you that the period was not without its pangs for me. First I woke at midnight and found we had crept round to a southerly heading, so retrimmed sails and Miranda’s lines. It was dense fog so I lit Tilley and rigged her with Old Faithful, the riding light still alight in the stern.
At 0043 hrs. I was out again and noted how hard it was to trim for a beam wind. I hovered till 0130 and then tried for some more sleep. I was expecting the wind to shift during the night from SE. to south and later to shift again from south to south-west according to the St John’s broadcast forecast. I hoped the ship would peacefully follow these changes round and that I should wake in the morning to find the heading north-west. Super optimist!
At 0215 I woke feeling drugged with sleep but answering to an uneasy feeling. It was pouring a tropical downfall of heavy rain. During this cascade the wind lulled preparatory to a shift in direction. Unfortunately, I had left a shock-cord with tension on the tiller to bias it to weather, and thereby help Miranda. As soon as the wind dropped. Miranda ceased to pull the tiller but the shock-cord still did and we began to gybe. I was most anxious to avoid this to save Miranda from getting tangled up with the backstay and main boom.
I jumped out of bed and slipped an oilskin coat over me but had no time for the trousers, boots or cap. So there I was bare-footed, bare-headed, and in my long woollen underfugs, God bless’em… in a cockpit which already was 3 inches deep in water and bucketfuls emptying on top of me. What a jolly life the mariner has!
I saved the possible lash-up and got everything going well and I must say my blankets did seem even more cosy than before when I returned with numb feet, etc., etc. This was at 0215 and after that I was allowed to sleep in peace till 0725 while Miranda and Gipsy Moth knocked up 7 knots average. I find I have learnt a lot about sailing this voyage, especially in regard to sail-trimming; I find it fascinating, though often I wish I did not have to learn it the hard way as last night.
With the shortage of fuel and abundance of wet clothes I have picked up one or two miserly tricks to help me counteract the shortage. Whenever the Primus flame is unoccupied I put on a big pot of salt water. This is expected to radiate heat after the fire is out and is very helpful with drying dish-cloths which I spread over the hot saucepan.
Now I’m trying a development of this; I filled Sheila’s hot-water bottle and wrapped a wet pair of trousers round it. If this is a success I could repeat it every time I light the Primus and gradually dry out a few hits of clothing. I also found that a hot kettle on the cabin sole dried out a patch underneath it and as it can stand just as well down there as on the stove I plan to move it about a small area beside my berth in the hope I can have a wee area of dry boards
to step on.
Now I am in a tactical dilemma. It all hinges again on this ice question. It really is tantalizing to think of the special USA ice patrol vessels out all the time to locate bergs and mark the limits of small ice. No one could wish for their information more than I do and I cannot get the merest whisper about it. I regularly comb the whole range of frequencies available to me but no joy.
The tactical problem is this (wait till I get the chart): On my present heading I shall be into the June 8th ice area in nine hours’ time. If I tack then it will put me on the less favourable heading. On this present tack we are headed 30° to the right of New York. But if I tack on reaching the ice area we shall be headed 70° to the left of New York.
Furthermore, if I could continue into the aforesaid ice area for 120 miles after entering it, I would get into the favourable Labrador current which, will help me on my way round Cape Race. I think I should be lucky not to run into ice during that further 120 miles.
Let us see what the Admiralty Pilot says about it. This is the Novia Scotia volume which covers the Grand Banks; it has 14 pages dealing with ice only. ‘The worst season for bergs in the Great Bank region is from the middle of March to the middle of July.’ ‘The greater number take the deep water route, Path C, down the eastern edge of the Bank and these constitute the greatest danger to the shipping routes.’
At the moment I am bang in the middle of route C, crossing it. (Just wait while I have a look-out for icebergs from the cockpit, will you!) Reading this stuff I half expected to see a berg but as the visibility is only 200 yards in the fog at present I rustled back to my cosy seat below.
Then the ‘Pilot’says ‘The normal number of bergs south of the 48th parallel of latitude’ (we are at 45 ° 40’ at the moment) is June, 14; July, 25, and south of the 43rd parallel June, 12; July, 3.’ Therefore I consider I can expect the June 8th area to have shrunk a great deal by July 5th (because there are only one-third as many bergs in the area in July compared with June).
I hope you don’t mind me reasoning this out on paper with you; it seems to clarify the issue. The Pilot gives a plan for each month of the year, and these show that the ‘probable mean limit of bergs and growlers, 1920-1939’ recedes about 150 miles northwards in July compared with June; also that I shall be through the southern tongue of this area by the 47 ° 30’ W. meridian which I am due to reach at 1730 hrs. this evening.
On the whole the paper evidence is strongly in favour of its being all right. The only doubt left in my mind is raised by the cold. I have my woollies on, the Aladdin stove going at its highest flame, the ventilator bunged up and the doors shut, yet it is cold below. Above on deck, it is freezing cold with thick fog, visibility 100 yards.
Well, thank you. I’ve made up my mind that it is reasonable to press on. I shall put my trust in the Almighty who I am convinced has it all arranged anyhow. I will now fetch out the Guinness.
It is fine to be sailing again and approximately in the right direction. If only I could have twelve days of this wind it would put me in New York. I wonder where my rivals are? I sometimes think these races would be much improved in excitement and interest by knowing where all the rivals are. This is done in the Sydney-Hobart race where positions are all recorded daily.
But there is another way of looking at it from the competitor’s viewpoint. If he knew his rival was hopelessly far ahead, it might spoil his fun that he gets hoping to the end that he may be first even if actually last; while on the other hand, if he hears his rivals have all packed up through accidents or got hopelessly far behind, that could spoil his sport even more.
One of the things I have learnt on this race is that a yacht with a self-steering device could never compete with a fully crewed one. I never realized how frequently one changed the trim of the sails or the sails themselves in racing; or put another way, how the wind direction and speed are changing nearly the whole time.
This Atlantic race is much dependent on the endurance of the man. Had I twice my endurance, twice my strength and twice my ‘what-it-takes’I would have many times changed sails when I didn’t and carried more canvas than I did, and many, many times more often I would have retrimmed.
It will be fascinating to me to see how my black-bearded friend has got along. I can’t see him turning over in his berth determined to get some more sleep while the ship heads in the wrong direction. Anyway this mucking about off the Grand Banks the past few days has given me the rest I badly needed and all I want now, I feel, is wind … wind … wind, and it can be – Hey! Press on! for New York!
6th July. 0930 hrs. What a fantastic change of life, not only physical but mental and moral too! This time last night I was fast asleep snug among the blankets. A feeling of urgency, of apprehension woke me.
Ten minutes later I was standing in two inches of water in the cockpit (in rubber boots); I got up to the mast, clipped my belt to a halliard and wrestled with the mainsail halliard in one hand to slack it away as required, grabbing handfuls of mainsail with the other hand to pull the main down as I let the halliard go up. The wind, blowing gale force, bound the sail and its slides against anything they touched so that it was hard pulling to get it down.
The bows lifted in the air and smacked down 10 feet to dash a hose of water over my back. Flashes of lightning made the fog brightly luminous. There was no sound of thunder above the sail’s own thunderclaps as it flogged in the wind. The rain was a deluge but I didn’t notice that or didn’t distinguish it from the sea water hitting me.
The ship lurched, pitched, rolled, trying every trick to throw me from my hold. Standing on top of the dinghy to gather the sail to the boom, the seething white water from the ship’s bow-waves rushed past at what seemed a terrific speed in the dark. One moment I was looking down at it from a height and the next it was quite close to me again near my own level.
Between flashes of lightning, the Tilley light threw my giant shadow on to the fog behind me. It was exhilarating, hanging on, doing the job, while tearing through the darkness rushing into nothing ahead. But the sudden change from being warm and drowsy with sleep makes it a hard life. The first time I went up was to change to a smaller jib, next I went up to change the main for a trysail but when the main was furled we were going so fast that I did not set the trysail.
To show there was some wind, at my third sortie from the blankets which was in daylight, we had travelled 25 miles at a speed of 6· 1 knots under No. 2 jib only. This time I set the trysail and it is still set but I must go and change back to the mainsail as the wind has abated.
I remember how apprehensive I felt before turning in last night. At that time we were having a wonderful sail, going fast over a calm sea. I was not happy last night about charging blindly into the night, in dense fog, visibility 75 yards. I’ve always understood the Grand Banks are the greatest fishing-grounds of the world and must be stuffed with trawlers. Far more trawlers than even icebergs I would think. Instinct is a creepy, scared, shrinking little funk. I told it as firmly as I could that the Grand Banks are a huge area more than 200 miles square, and that if you shoot into a covey of partridges you never bag one. Therefore why worry about a trawler on the Grand Banks?
All the same I shall be thankful to be off them. What a place! Well! Up and doing! I must not waste any of this wind.
I went up and decided to reef before hoisting the main. I hate that reefing; it is hard work, tedious and needs much attention. I would say 1½ hours of hard grind on one’s own to do it thoroughly, an hour anyhow.
By that time the wind had strengthened and I decided there was plenty of it for the trysail. There might not be too much for the fully reefed mainsail as it is but if it increases a little more (as in fact I hear now by the rising whine, that it has) then I have all the work to undo and the trysail to reset.
So here I am back in the snuggery. I will send for the steward to bring me my morning Guinness. But seriously, on looking into it further, I find that we are doing 5½ knots hard on the wind with t
he trysail set and I relax when that is set. Half this race is a matter of keeping out of trouble and unnecessary work. We have sailed 134½ miles this day so far with half an hour to go to noon. Not bad, with four hours of it under jib only and four under jib and trysail. Oh! for a week of it, which would see me into New York!
I must get weaving on the navigation. This charging through fog for days on end with no chance of a fix needs careful dead reckoning. I did not make navigating easier yesterday by dropping and breaking my navigation watch. Now I must use the electric clock.
I noted down every time mentioned by the CBC announcer, called Jeff Scott, before breakfast. I got nine times from him which made my clock between five and twenty seconds fast. The average was twelve seconds fast and if I use that I shall be probably not more than two miles out. As there does not seem the least possibility of a sun sight because of the fog it does not matter much at present.
PS. A horrid whine in the rigging; what luck that I was confiding in you and didn’t go up half an hour earlier to set the main. I should have been taking it down again only a few minutes after finishing the job. Do you recommend some oranges or Guinness for my elevenses?
Later. Yesterday’s run 137 miles, total miles to date 2,355. Big news for me, we are in a beam current, i.e. no longer bucking a head-on current, and tomorrow we should enter the south-west going Labrador current which I hope we shall carry all the way to New York. We are 140 miles ESE. of Cape Race and I hope by tomorrow will have a bit of the American continent behind us.
7th July. 1125 hrs. St John’s time. I’ve gone and taken a lot of the pleasure out of my morning prattle to you by washing up the breakfast things (and dinner and supper and 2nd, 3rd and 4th suppers included of course). I only realized when I had done it how much more I enjoyed my prattle if I was feeling I ought to have washed up but hadn’t.
Alone Across the Atlantic Page 13
