Then there was ice. I dreaded icebergs, though there were many times more trawlers on the banks than icebergs. I could not get any ice information with my radio, and could only guess at the ice area from the information got together before the race. Once a cold clammy air entered the cabin, and I thought there must be a big berg nearby. I climbed into the cockpit to keep watch, but found dense fog on a pitch black night. I could not see 25 yards ahead with a light. Gipsy Moth was sailing fast into the darkness. I decided that keeping watch was a waste of time, went below and mixed myself my anti-scorbutic. The lemon juice of this wonderful drink not only keeps physical scurvy away, but if enough of the right kind of whisky is added to it, mental scurvy as well. Gipsy Moth sailed on through the dark.
One day I had a surprise when I saw a long low island in the foggy mist. By my reckoning the nearest land was 360 miles away. Then it moved. The fog had thinned, and this was a big swell looming in the mist half a mile away. The Grand Banks seem wrapped in romance after the turbulent Atlantic. One night, sailing through a calm sea with the moon behind fine clouds, a bird flew overhead, making queer squeaky mewing sounds, as if it wanted to talk.
Once I was nearly becalmed, and thought that I would try for a fish, as I was on the greatest fishing grounds of the world. My line had not been down long and I was below, when I heard a sort of deep sigh, which brought me up into the cockpit. Four whales were just diving, their backs above the surface. I could have prodded the nearest with my boathook. They looked awfully black, sleek and powerful, and the thought flashed through my brain, 'Are you friendly?' When I looked round there were about 100 of them near. I hurriedly hauled in my log line, arid then I took in my fishing line; those backs seemed a broad hint that I was poaching. As I watched, I got the impression that the whales were in a number of small groups which one after the other sent one whale to inspect Gipsy Moth until at the end after ten or fifteen minutes they all dived like one and vanished. I did not really wish to catch a fish after living alone for a month; I remember that Slocum could not shoot a duck in the Magellan Straits although he was short of food.
On 8 July, excitement; after twenty-seven days of calling in vain on my R/T, I had an answer! It is true that I closed the land to within 40 miles of Cape Race, Newfoundland, but I got through a message to Chris Brasher in London. It was a Saturday morning and I felt that he would urgently need some news for the next day's Observer. I had an odd feeling of excitement in speaking to someone after four weeks' silence.
Next day ended the fourth week of the race. Gipsy Moth had sailed as she should, like a horse picking up its heels and going full stretch.
During that week she had made good 690 miles towards New York, and as a result at the end of the fourth week I was only 865 miles from New York, whereas Blondie was 1,208 miles. My dreaded rival, the black-bearded Viking, because of his taking the longer route in the south, had still 2,190 miles to go, and barring accidents to Blondie and me, he was out of the race. Lewis was about 600 miles astern now. Of course I did not know any of this at the time.
After leaving Cape Race, which is the southernmost tip of Newfoundland, my next concern was Sable Island. This is a 20-mile long sandbank, 90 miles offshore from Nova Scotia. I have a chart of this island drawn up by a lighthouse keeper there, which shows 200 ships wrecked on it since 1800. In every account I had read of wrecks on Sable Island, the captain had thought himself a long way off when his ship struck. I was puzzled about this, and apprehensive.
I think I know now why many of these wrecks occurred. At first it looked as if I was going to pass south of the island. Then the wind changed, and I began heading north of it. I ought then to have been in the favourable Labrador current, a comparatively narrow stream wending its way south-westerly along the eastern seaboard of America. Flowing alongside it, in the opposite direction, is the Gulf Stream, with such a sharp division between the two that it is known as the Cold Wall. As I approached the rocky coast of Nova Scotia I reckoned that I was in the favourable Labrador current. I never saw anything of the 300-mile long coast, although I tacked close to it on three occasions. I was in fog most of the time, and so cold that I was still wearing my long woollen underpants as well as thick clothes, with the Aladdin heater going day and night. Yet I heard a radio station reporting temperatures in the eighties only 50 miles away. On 12 July I got a good fix by bearings from radio beacons on Sable Island, Sambro Light Vessel and the north-east point of Nova Scotia, which showed that my dead reckoning position was 22½ miles in error, too far west. Three days later my reckoning was again too far west, this time 28 miles. Here was a total error of 50 miles, which could easily have caused a wreck if I had not discovered it. I think my error could have been caused only by an eddy from the Gulf Stream invading the Labrador current, and reversing it. No wonder the sailing ships of 100 years ago were wrecked when they lacked my advantage of being able to take bearings of radio beacons on Sable Island and the mainland.
During this passage between Nova Scotia and Sable Island I had a narrow escape. I was sitting in the cabin with the last bottle of whisky aboard on the swinging table. Gipsy Moth suddenly performed one of her famous ski jumps. She would sidle up the side of a wave and roll sharply at the top before taking off the other side, and landing with a terrific crash in the trough. This was more than the swinging table could cope with, the bottle of whisky shot up into the air, turned a somersault, and was headed for the cabin floor neck first. I was faced with tragedy – my last bottle of whisky. My hand shot out and I fielded it by the neck on the way down. I could not have been more pleased if I had brought off a brilliant catch in a Test Match. I was not so lucky next day, however, with a jug of tea which was shot up into the air in the same way. I could not help laughing; it was incredible that so many tea-leaves could come from one spoonful; the table, the seat opposite, the whole floor, and the side of my settee were all plastered with tea-leaves. There were even some in the dustpan stowed away in the cubby-hole under the seat.
16 July was a key day for me. It was the thirty-seventh day of the race and the first completely fine day so far. Also, it was a perfect sailing day, with a soldier's breeze from the north, not a cloud in the sky, big round sun, and a small crescent moon. I was bustling to and fro all day with clothes, bedding, mattresses, cushions, etc. My green velvet smoking jacket, which I had fondly hoped I should be changing into occasionally for a quiet dinner on board, was nearly solid with mildew, with parts worn through by chafing against the side of the ship. However, I put it to dry, and later, when I came to brush it, to my surprise the mildew came off, leaving that part spotlessly clean. Had I found a cheap rival to dry cleaning? By the end of that day there really were dry patches on the cabin floor. And at night the sky was clear with bright stars twinkling like diamonds, the first time I had seen them.
Next day I moved on to a chart with New York at the other end of it. I had sailed 3,516 miles, but had no idea of how I was placed in the race. How well I knew from previous races that heart-sinking feeling on arriving to find my rivals already in! But even if I were last, I should have had the romantic thrill which only a voyage like this can give.
I was approaching the Nantucket Shoals, about which the Admiralty pilots say, 'These shoals extend 40 miles south-east of Sankaty Head Lighthouse, and render this one of the most dangerous parts of the Unites States coast.' At first I hoped to sail round them to the south, without having to tack, but the wind veered, and headed me straight for the middle of the shoals. I was racing, and did not want to tack. I studied all the charts I had to see if I could thread a safe passage through them, bearing in mind that I had seen no landmark or seamark of any description since the Eddystone Rock 3,700 miles behind me. These shoals have affected American history; the Mayflower, with the Pilgrim Fathers on board, put about when she came upon them and headed north, to found their settlement at Plymouth, New England, instead of proceeding to New Jersey as they had intended. Later, Captain Hudson was diverted by the shoals, put out to s
ea and sailed on to New York, where the Hudson River is named after him.
A night of exciting navigation followed. I went to sleep an hour before midnight, headed for the middle of the shoals, and slept for two and a quarter hours, when I got up for a radio-beacon fix, then slept soundly again for an hour and a quarter. I woke with a start. The night was pitch black, and there were no lights to aid me. I could not get soundings, and radio-beacon bearings are unreliable at night. Yet I decided to get radio-beacon bearings at intervals; I thought I could see a way to make a safe passage, even if some of the bearings were inaccurate. None of the radio fixes I got agreed with one another, and the dead reckoning differed from them all. However, if one could rely on accurate information, navigation would be a simple science, whereas the art and great fascination of it lies in deducing correctly from uncertain clues. I passed over one shoal, but I knew that there was enough depth and sailed on into a squall, which turned out to be a thunderstorm with a deluge of rain. My track should have taken me, by my reckoning, within 2 miles of a Texas radar tower built on legs on the shoals, but I never saw it, for as soon as I was near the middle of the shoals a thick fog rolled up. I did hear the tower foghorn from the direction where it ought to have been; giving two deep moos like a sick bull, but I could not tell how far off it was. Then it fell dead calm. I was not happy; I could not get a radio-beacon fix because the three usable beacons (Nantucket Light Vessel, Cape Cod and Pollock's Rip) were all in a line with Gipsy Moth. However, I kept on taking bearings from them and formed an impression of where I was. I set the ghosting genoa and tended it with great care all morning, trying to edge westwards, but there was seldom enough wind to move smoke. We were just moving, however, sailing slowly westwards at the edge of a tide-rip like a field of earthed-up potato rows. The forward half of Gipsy Moth was in smooth water, humping up as if about to break; the aft half was in the tide-rip, which advanced at exactly the same pace as the ship for what seemed a long time. The danger of these shoals is that a sea may break and dump the ship on the bottom, to be overwhelmed by the next comber. Since we were moving, I hoisted the mainsail, and our speed went up to 2 knots, but at the same time we were being carried northwards towards the shoals at 2 knots. Three-quarters of an hour later we were still moving, but still had 20 miles of the shoals to cross. I could not think of anything else I could do, so I went below and turned in for a siesta. When I woke it was 9.10 and I found the ship going well at 5 knots. I felt that I had been lucky.
Next morning I sighted my first mark – Block Island at the north entrance to Long Island Sound. I embarked on an orgy of cleanliness. Sheila had made a strong statement that it was quite unnecessary for a single-handed sailor to turn up looking like a tramp with a dirty boat, so, after I had washed the cabin floor, the stove and everything washable including my shirts, I set to work on myself and threw in a haircut.
That night I had a grand sail along the 100-mile coastline of Long Island, averaging 7 knots for nine hours. But I could not relax, and had to keep awake, though at times I had difficulty in keeping my eyelids up. Gipsy Moth was close to the shore, and any change of wind could have run her aground. Also, the navigation was difficult at night; there were lights, but not close enough for two to be seen together to give a fix, and as a result I could not tell how far offshore I was in the dark. At 9.30 next morning I logged, 'Twenty-four miles to go. Will that black-bearded Viking be in already?' But an hour later I was becalmed.
At 1.30 p.m. as I decided to eat lunch, a faint breeze livened up, and I did not get a meal till twelve and a half hours later, two hours after next midnight. As soon as Gipsy Moth began sailing, I tried to call up the New York coastguards. Suddenly a clear voice broke in, which sounded elusively familiar, 'This is the Edith G. at the Ambrose Light. Your wife is on board and wants to speak to you.' I could hear a word or two from her, but she was pressing the wrong button. Then the clear voice came back, 'What is your course?'
'270 degrees.'
'OK two-seven-zero. We will meet you.'
My lunch was off. I was out of sight of land crossing from Fire Island to the Ambrose Light, and I watched every launch excitedly. I took a set of radio bearings off Ambrose, Barnegat and Fire Island to check my position. At 3.50 p.m. I was met by a fishing-boat. Sheila waved to me, looking very smart in her Mirman hat. Great wavings from friends aboard. I thought to myself, 'This is very fine but what about the race? They know, I don't. How can I find out without appearing too pushing?' I thought of something, 'What news of the others?' I asked. Someone said, 'You are first,' and those words were honey sweet.
I crossed the finishing line at 5.30 p.m., 40 days 12 hours and 30 minutes after the starting gun, having sailed 4,004½ miles to make good 3,000 miles on the Great Circle Course. I had to sail 16 miles up New York Harbour through the narrows to Staten Island, and no one was allowed aboard until I had been cleared by the health and immigration authorities. My clockwork seemed to have run down, and when I rounded up off Coney Island I lowered and handled my sails like a landlubber, until I seemed to have a tangle of sails, ropes, warps, fenders all over the deck. Every few seconds I had to stop to try to hear, try to answer, some question shouted at me. I was grateful for a tow for the rest of the way when it fell calm, and I was unable to start my motor.
CHAPTER 29
NEW YORK AND NEW PLANS
The clear strong voice which had hailed me as I approached New York belonged to Captain Jim Percy, Senior Captain of BOAC, and I had last heard it at a meeting of the Court of the Guild of Air Pilots and Air Navigators. Jim had been asked by the Grand Master, Prince Philip, and the Master, K. G. Bergin, to welcome me on reaching New York. He donned his full robes of a Warden, together with the broad squashed cap, and we were photographed shaking hands. Someone had presented me with two brandies and sodas, and I thought it was because of them that I hit the doorway a solid thump when I tried to pass through it; actually, I had lost my sense of balance, and I realised then that I had lost it at sea days before, which explained why I had difficulty in doing any job which required two hands while standing up.
Bubbling with an excitement which could never be recaptured I went off with Sheila to her room in the New York Hotel, where Chris Brasher turned up with a marvellous feast. This was at 2 a.m. and I started to enjoy it, but Sheila and I both fell asleep in the middle, and Chris tiptoed out.
Hasler came in eight days later, and Lewis was third, seven and a half days after Hasler. Howells, the black-bearded Viking, arrived sixty-three days after the start. His route was nearly a great circle till past the Azores, and from there he sailed to Bermuda, where he put in to have his watch repaired. Jean Lacombe in the small yacht Cap Horn started five days after the rest of us, and arrived on 24 August. Sheila and I met him being towed in as we were leaving for Plymouth.
I lost 10 lbs during the race, because, I think, of the big physical effort. Blondie, who said that he had done no work at all with his big Chinese sail, also lost 10 lbs, Lewis lost 20 lbs and Howells 18 lbs.
During my race I wrote 50,000 words of log, which were formed into a book entitled, Alone Across the Atlantic. Every day I used to look forward to writing in my blue book after breakfast, when I had come through another night and was feeling rather pleased and optimistic, with the next night out of thought. I used to imagine that I was talking to Sheila or a friend, and I think it kept me from being lonely. Chris and I spent ninety minutes on the transatlantic telephone one day, sending through an extract from this log for The Observer.
I stepped straight from forty days alone at sea into a high-powered businessman's life, with hundreds of letters and telegrams to answer, newspaper and radio interviews, and one or two pretty shady television appearances. Sheila brought about a deal with Sports Illustrated for me to write them a long story, and I found the staff delightful people to deal with. Percy Knauth lent me one of their offices, where I worked on my story.
The most interesting thing for me was Sheila's story; how she had set sa
il in the French liner Flandres before she knew if I had passed Land's End, and I do not think there would have been much interest in the race in America if it had not been for Sheila's flair for public relations; and I am sure that no one would have come out to meet me if it had not been for her. We had an invitation from an American cousin to visit her at Cape Cod. We wanted to go, but there seemed an awful lot to do in New York. A week later Cousin Dick or 'Grandick' as her family called her, telephoned, asking us again. We wanted to go, but it seemed a formidable undertaking to get out of all the things we had to do in New York and sail to Cape Cod. Then she telephoned to say, 'My son Felix is flying down in his plane to pick you up, and he will fetch you from the hotel in a car.' This was the start of the most delightful visit imaginable. Cousin Dick, born a Chichester, had married Felix du Pont Senior, and had bought a point of land, Indian Point, where she had her own summer house and several other houses for members of her family. What was so delightful about them was that they never showed what odd fish we must appear to them. Grandick, who was over eighty, wanted to take us out to a party to meet a host of people every day, or else to go to see some famous landmark like the Plymouth Rock, whereas all we wanted was to loll about on the beach, bathing and eating a wonderful beach lunch with lots of clams. Nothing could be more foreign to the American way of thinking than our attitude and desire to do nothing. Felix, Cousin Dick's son, had learned seaplane flying not long after I had, and as he too now had a yacht, we had much in common to discuss. Cousin Dick was an interesting benevolent autocrat, who enjoyed her swim every morning before lunch.
The Lonely Sea and the Sky Page 37
