I got another sun-shot when the sun half showed through the ragged stormy sky. I had to grab the chance, and though I only poked my nose out of the hatch, both the sextant and I got a thorough sea bath again. The seas were very rough, abou 12 feet, with a gale south-west by west.
16 June. How that anchor light maddened me! Once it went out while hanging quietly on a hook in the cabin without being touched. The battery charging on this day got the acid level up to 1143.
I was still getting my story through every day, and wondered if I could keep it going. Later, I had to stop charging, because the exhaust flames were blowing through the asbestos wrapping round the short exhaust pipe at the forward end of the motor. I could see the red hot gases flowing quickly, like a river. The pipe had been burnt away.
During the day the wind dropped to a zephyr, and in a short while veered through 225 degrees from north right round through east and south to south-west. Taking the opportunity to shave, I spotted that the barometer had dropped a millibar in the ten minutes while I was shaving. I went on deck at once, and changed the big genoa to the tiny spitfire jib. The genoa was already being overpowered. After midnight the ship was thrown about so badly that I had to change to a leeward berth for fear that I should be thrown right across the cabin into the pilot berth at the far side while asleep. (Apart from the effect of this on me, all the eggs were stowed in that berth!) As soon as I had settled into the new berth, Gipsy Moth tacked herself, and came up aback, headed north-east. All my oilies and boots had to go on, and I jibbed her round. The anchor light went out, of course, and I could not get it out on the stay again alight until three attempts had failed. What a job in a gale! Nine hours later Gipsy Moth was becalmed again. What a life!
Pidge seemed to like chopped up bread to eat better than anything else now. I had tried him with both cheese and sugar, but he turned them down. He had two red bands on his tough, scaly legs, and I passed his number to London. It turned out that he was a French aristocrat coming from a long-distance racing family and that he was racing from the Channel Islands to Preston, Lancashire, when he came down on Gipsy Moth. Perhaps the very old blood in his veins made his manners so peculiar! He never finished more than two-thirds of any dishful I gave him, and rejected any piece which was a fraction bigger than his maximum. I never understood this – if a pigeon can swallow a whole acorn, why can he not eat a piece of bread a fifth of the size?
Fog came, reducing visibility to half a mile. I was amazed at how little fog I had met so far; in 1960 I was in fog for more than a third of the voyage. My course to clear the icebergs was 247° True.
18 June. I hit a head-on gale, a very different proposition from a gale on the beam. A modern yacht can make headway against a gale, provided that the sea is not too turbulent, but in a west Atlantic gale, the ship gets thrown about so much and its way is stopped so frequently that it cannot progress into wind; every time its way is checked, the wind pushes the hull to leeward.
At 9 o'clock in the evening the jib sheet parted at the clew with a sharp twang. I rushed up to get in the sail before it flogged itself to bits. The stem I was standing on was jumping 15 feet above the water. My hands were so numb that I had trouble tying the knots of the sail ties. During the jib trouble, the halyard fouled up the forestays, locking them together, so that I could not set another headsail. It was all my fault, because I ought to have shortened sail long before. I had been repairing the motor exhaust and had wanted to finish that job before going on deck. I tried to get moving with a trysail and a staysail. As I was setting the trysail I was swung round the mast, and my head was knocked into the reefing gear of the boom. I was surprised that I was not knocked out. When I set the staysail as well as the trysail, the ship seemed to go mad, and I hurriedly dropped the staysail again.
The barometer had dropped nearly 20 millibars in a period of minutes, and a pinkish glow suffused the overcast. I expected hell to be let loose that night.
When I came aft from the jib picnic, Pidge was missing. My heart dropped; I thought that he must have been washed overboard. In the end I found him back in his locker under the cockpit seat, very forlorn, wet and bedraggled. I gave him one of Stalker's oat cakes; nothing but the best for him on such an occasion. He seemed to love it.
In the twilight before nightfall I set about reefing Miranda. I believed this to be the toughest job I have had to do at sea. First I lowered the gaff to the boom, and as they swung weathercocking astern I slung a rope over them and managed to haul them round against the wind, to lash them to a backstay. Next, keeping my footing as best I could on the bucking, twisting counter, I worked away; mostly by feel, to find the reefing eyes in the folded sail, and pass a reefing cord through them. I had to use both hands on this job, working above shoulder height, and holding on by grabbing the head-high spars when necessary. I do not know how long it all took; I would estimate two and a half hours. I stopped in the middle and went below till I had some feeling again in numb fingers. I was being bull-minded, bloody-minded if you like, but I had made up my mind to reef that sail. I had ceased to consider whether, with the gale increasing, I should be able to use it when it was reefed. In the end I finished the job, and somehow felt in better spirits for having done it.
CHAPTER 31
BACK TO NEW YORK
During the next nine hours Gipsy Moth only moved 10 miles to the north-west. Even so, I reckoned that I was working too far north, and would soon be north-east of the icebergs, so that they lay between me and New York. I dreaded those bergs, though the chance of hitting one of them was minute compared with the risk of steamers – but icebergs take no notice of the international regulations that a yacht has right of way! I decided to change tacks and head south. I had difficulty in getting the ship to tack without a headsail in the gale, with big turbulent seas. With dawn I set to work on untangling the forestays, but it took me more than two hours before I had the spitfire set; and after that the spitfire was not enough to keep the ship's head up to the wind in the wild sea running.
Poor Pidge. The cockpit was half full of water, and I could see his skin as if his bedraggled feathers did not exist. He looked so miserable that I took him below and tried to settle him in a large biscuit tin. Unfortunately I had nothing really suitable. He would not stay in the tin, so I took him back to his cubby-hole. I supposed that a pigeon was used to roosting out in anything, but it was bitingly cold.
By noon I had made good only 9 miles towards New York, although I had sailed 70 miles. My hands were numb after only twenty minutes of handling ropes in the cockpit. The gale had now backed, and I was headed east of south. I decided to hold on to the southerly course, however, to get clear of the icebergs. I had made a blunder heading north-west the day before. The sea was very rough, with plenty of surf from the combers, and the breakers twisting in all directions. I could not keep warm, though I had on my long woollen underpants, a thick knitted ski-sweater and a padded nylon jacket, with the heater going full blast. Every time I came below I propped my sea boots upside down on top of the heater, and hung my scarf and storm stalker on a hook above it. The storm stalker was saturated, but I put it back on wet and clammy each time because it was invaluable for protecting my eyes against flogging ropes. The most I could hope for was that the stove heat would warm it, and dry it a little each time.
I finished repairing the burst exhaust pipe, and started charging, but there was no oil pressure until I added another pint to the engine. I was amazed that I succeeded in transmitting to London with green seas catching the aerial. I lowered Miranda's gaff, furled her sail, and secured the whole to a backstay. I thought Gipsy Moth would sail herself in that gale without Miranda, but as soon as I got below and started cooking some vegetables, she tacked herself, putting the sails aback. I had to dress up again and jib the ship back on to her old heading.
By 9 o'clock that night the gale had veered 45 degrees. The ship's heading had improved as a result, but she was taking a frightful bashing. I felt I should do something dra
stic before she was damaged. I tacked ship, leaving the sails aback. This slowed her up, but she was still being knocked over. Then I lowered the trysail, leaving only the tiny spitfire. I let this draw, and then tacked again, so that the spitfire would be aback on the southerly heading. This was an improvement below, except when green seas hit the deck. Once I was standing in the cabin facing forward when a big sea broke on top. A little cloud of fine spray shaped like a ball appeared in front of my eyes below the cabin roof. That cabin top is one solid piece of thick plywood, with no break in it anywhere, except where a ring bolt passes through. That was the only place where the spray could have been forced through, and showed the tremendous pressure which a big wave must exert.
An hour after midnight on 20 June I logged that I had spent nearly an hour trying to get the anchor light to stay alight. It went out in the calm of the cabin before it even met the gale. Finally I decided that I must sail without a light, or use electricity and be damned. In this rough weather the light was most needed, so I rigged the electric light.
At three in the morning I changed over to a leeward berth to avoid being thrown across the cabin. We were still going much too fast, although it was only 3 knots. I pondered how I could slow the ship up. I went on deck, and lashed the tiller hard alee. This headed the ship closer to the wind by 30 degrees, and slowed the speed down to 1½ knots. An occasional heavy wave came on board, and one put out the cabin light; I suppose the shock caused by the bang did it. I reckoned that the wind on deck was 60 knots.
At dawn I found that the log had stopped again. This time I could not blame Pidge; the burgee halyard had parted, and one part of it, with the burgee stick, had been washed into the sea where the spinning log had twisted it hopelessly round the log line. I finished unravelling the log line – among other jobs – six hours later. By noon I had moved 59 miles southwards in the past twenty-four hours, but because of the Gulf Stream and the leeway caused by the gale, I had been driven back 25 miles towards Europe.
By the evening, the wind had veered to north-west, and decreased to Force 7. The seas, though less rough, were still turbulent. I was getting very worried about Pidgy. He looked bare, wet and cold, and had whitish scabs round his eyes. I could not bear to see him looking so miserable. I made him a dovecote out of a cardboard box that had originally held a Thermos-jug, and had a circular hole in it. I secured this box to the cabin roof above the galley and placed Pidgy through the hole, after wrapping him in some old pyjamas. He pecked me when I picked him up. For a while he lay there, just looking, but later I saw that he had stood up. I feared that he was about to hand in his chips, but presently he started eating a Stalker oatcake in his eyrie. I felt that called for a celebration – a strong gin and lime.
Having settled Pidgy as well as I could, I got to work on the trysail, and finished setting it. The halyard kept getting tangled up in the strong wind. When at last I got below I was surprised to find it calm. On looking out, I was even more surprised to find that it was still blowing Force 7.
I worked up my dead reckoning for the past day, and found that the nearest iceberg was now 93 miles off to the west. I had to keep below west to avoid it. Then I started work on Miranda. Her gaff gooseneck, which had sheared off, I managed to replace with an old screw-eye, which I filed down to fit. This was an acrobatic effort, which involved hanging over the pulpit in the stern above the jumping Atlantic. I used shackles and lanyards to replace various bottlescrews and stays which had come apart or snapped. It was dreary, tedious, tricky, and depressing work, but before midnight Gipsy Moth had started sailing again in a modest sort of way. When I turned in at midnight Pidgy's tail was sticking out of the box above the galley and I think he was asleep.
When I woke at daybreak, 7 o'clock by my time, Gipsy Moth was becalmed, after sailing only 12 miles in seven hours. There was a shower of rain, but it looked as if it would be a fine morning later. The nearest berg was 70 miles to the west. I set a bigger headsail, and Gipsy Moth began moving to a light breeze. The sea had gone down.
I took Pidge (somewhat reluctantly on his part) from his dovecote, and put him on the cockpit seat, as I thought that he ought to have some fresh air and movement. I then cleaned out his dovecote, and lined it with paper. When I stepped into the cockpit Pidge had moved on to the counter and made as if to fly off: he often flew off, and circled the ship once or twice before alighting again. 'Yes, go on,' I said and waved him off. He took off astern, but stalled into the water a few feet away. At first he flapped the water to try to take off, then turned round and started flapping frantically to catch up the ship. It was heart-rending to see his panic as the stern moved steadily away. I sprang to the cockpit, grabbed the tiller and, over-riding Miranda, brought the yacht round.
I aimed to arrive at the spot nearly dead into wind, so that the yacht would be moving slowly. I could not reduce sail, nor do anything which would make me take my eye off the pigeon. I knew from the experience with my lost dinghy that I should never see him again if I once lost sight of him – and one tiny grey pigeon in the middle of the Atlantic was infinitely smaller than a dinghy. I had to come up to him, so that he would be within a foot of the side of the ship; otherwise I should not be able to reach him. It was not easy, because from where I stood in the cockpit the pigeon would be out of sight, hidden by the bows, for the last 50 feet of my approach. When I thought that it was the right moment I left the tiller, sprang forward to where the freeboard was lowest – the only place along the deck where it was low enough for me to reach the water with my hand – threw myself on the deck, and thrust my arm and shoulder under the bottom lifeline. Pidgy was right there, and I clutched at him with my hand. But when I pushed my arm down suddenly, as I had to do in a hurry, he must have thought I was going to strike him, for he flapped madly away from me as I touched him, and I missed my hold. I felt terrible, that he should take me for an enemy. I ran back to the tiller and slowly, as it seemed, came round again. I had to stay by the tiller till the last moment, and then make a rush and a grab. Once I slipped, but I had no time to clip on my safety-harness. The next three passes I made at him he eluded me. I could see that I would not get him that way, and tried to squeeze an idea out of my head. Could I throw him anything that he could climb on? I looked round. I could not get below. The only thing I could see was a piece of old sail I had used for Pidgy's tent. I threw this out, but he thought I was throwing it at him and moved away. Then it sank. The big red gash bucket was at hand, and I hurriedly fastened it to the end of the boathook. I think I made fourteen circuits and passes at Pidge. I had him in the bucket about four times, but unfortunately as I lifted the bucket out of the water the overflow from it washed the pigeon out. The last time he was washed out he was swamped by the water and lay inert, with only a little of his back at the surface of the water. Next time I came round I picked him out easily with my hand as he lay inert.
I felt cut up as I held his soaking body; I felt responsible for him, and somehow his mean crabbed nature and his dreadful habits made me feel worse. I squeezed his lungs and the water dribbled out of his beak. Then I went on squeezing regularly, trying to revive him by artificial respiration. I think I was doing it the right way, because I could see air bubbling through his nostrils. At one time I thought he made a sound. I kept at it for, I think, about twenty minutes; then I wrapped him in hot clothes warmed from water in the Thermos. I filled a hot water bottle, and wrapped him with it in paper. But it was no good; Pidgy's spirit had flown. It was pathetic to look at his poor, emaciated, sick-looking body, which seemed to have only a few feathers. He looked either very old or very sick. It was the breakdown in communication between a human being and an animal which was so distressing. If only he could have trusted me, could have understood that I was trying to help him, and not hurt him, he would have still been alive.
I gave him a sea burial in my best biscuit tin with holes punched in it so that it would sink. I watched it till I could see it no longer as Gipsy Moth sailed away.
; I moped about that day. I had already been depressed, for the gale had cost me not only two and a half days but had set me back 20 miles. To say on 18 June that I had made good 560 miles during the past seven days was not bad; but to say three days later that I had made good only 560 miles during the past ten days was too bad. To achieve my ambition of a thirty-day crossing now entailed making good 1,400 miles in the next ten days, which was practically impossible.
That day I put my house in order; I filled the petrol tank, the paraffin storage tins and bottles, also the stove, the meths priming cans, swept the carpet, cleaned and dusted and tidied. At 4 o'clock in the afternoon Gipsy Moth began to sail, at first ghosting in light airs alternating with calm. She seemed to gather herself together, and began moving fast and efficiently in the little wind there was. There was much calm and fog, but she knocked off 100½ miles that day. Then she began sailing across the Grand Banks and down the eastern seaboard for the last 1300 miles of the voyage as she had never sailed before. I had one or two minor adventures. The night of 23 June I was fast asleep, with Gipsy Moth sailing at 4 knots through fog on a dark night. I woke up and stepped into the cockpit, rubbing my eyes, to see a huge fishing steamer across the bows. It was vague in the fog. I grabbed the tiller, over-rode Miranda, and pushed the tiller hard down to bring Gipsy Moth up into the wind to avoid the steamer. I reckoned that we were going to collide so I brought the tiller hard up the other way to turn downwind and pass astern. Then I could see that I was going to hit her amidships. She was a blaze of lights there. The sleepy daze was clearing from my brain and I said to myself, 'I must be able to range alongside if I head up into wind,' and with that I pushed the tiller hard down again. Now I was close enough to see through the fog that the steamer was stationary. This was what had foxed me. I passed across her bows, and as I did so she sounded a foghorn.
The Lonely Sea and the Sky Page 40
