The Lonely Sea and the Sky

by Sir Francis Chichester

  I trimmed the sails to get back on course before going below and mixing myself a stiff hot grog: my hands were so cold that it was difficult to hold a pen to the log.

  That day Gipsy Moth knocked off 131½ miles. I crossed the bows of another trawler 100 yards away; a third I heard, but did not see in the fog. There seemed to be fog all the time at this stage of the passage. Occasionally I could see the sun through the swirling mist overhead, but no horizon. I took a sun-shot with my bubble sextant, with its automatic averaging device, but I do not think that I could have succeeded but for the thousands of shots I had taken when we were developing the bubble sextant for flying in the war.

  During the night a bird kept circling the ship chittering and mewing and I wondered if it was the same one that I had heard on the Banks in 1960. On 24 June I wrote in my log, 'This is the sailing that sailors' dreams are made of, across the misty mysterious Grand Banks smooth as the Solent with water gliding along the hull gurgling and rumbling.' The magic of the voyage was in my blood. It was sheer joy to set or trim a sail to keep Gipsy Moth sailing at her best; it was sport getting over difficulties. I laughed at incidents like coming across that steamer on the Grand Banks. It began to seem as if life was a joke, and should be treated as one. I was bursting with fitness and joie de vivre that seemed to build up after a few weeks alone. Perhaps it had taken three weeks to shed the materialism of ordinary living. I had become twice as efficient as when with people; my sensations were all greater; excitement, fear, pleasure, achievement, all seemed sharper. My senses were much more acute, and everything was much more vivid – the shape and colour of sky and sea; feeling spray and wind, heat and cold; tasting food and drink; hearing the slightest change in the weather, the sea or the ship's gear. I have never enjoyed anything more than that marvellous last 1,000 miles sailing along the eastern seaboard of North America.

  On 27 June the day's run was 132¼ miles. At 9 p.m. I turned in early; the wind was backing and I expected to be called out soon. At 11 p.m. I woke and lay listening to Gipsy Moth riding madly through the night. It was rough going, but also it was intensely exhilarating, and I lay for some time pondering whether I should let her carry on. I thought that the mast, sails and gear could stand the strain, but Miranda was the weak link I feared for. Finally I dragged myself out of my blankets and climbed into the cockpit. Gipsy Moth was on a reach under yankee and full main, with a Force 6 wind on the beam. She was rushing into the dark with apparently acres of white water from the bow waves tearing past. I reckoned that we were doing 10 knots, faster than we had ever sailed before. Occasional combers rolled the boat over on to her beam, or slewed her stern or bows round. Regretfully, I lowered the big jib, and reefed two rolls of the mainsail. Still, Gipsy Moth was going faster than she had done before on the voyage. It was a rough night, but when I woke at 6.30 in the morning I found the sun streaming into the cabin out of a clear sky.

  At noon that day Gipsy Moth had sailed 159½ miles in the previous twenty-four hours. If only she could have had a fresh breeze all the time since the end of that gale! But day after day brought hours of calm, and hours of light airs. The daily distances sailed showed how well Gipsy Moth was going; one day she logged 132 miles, in spite of four hours calm and five hours of light airs. On three days after the gale she sailed more than 130 miles a day, and only on four days out of the thirteen sailed less than 100 miles. To have Gipsy Moth sailing well and under full control by Miranda in a zephyr gave me just as much pleasure as having her going well in a gale. Once in the middle of the night I woke up to find her becalmed. As I lay I pondered why the sails were asleep instead of flapping, and why the boom was not creaking as it swung to and fro. I went up into the cockpit and the first thing I noticed was a reflection of the planet Jupiter in the sea, something I have never seen before offshore. The sea could not have been calmer. To my surprise Gipsy Moth was ghosting along at 1½ knots in the right direction, with Miranda in control. It seemed hardly believable; I suspected that the log was reading wrongly, and out of curiosity I popped up again an hour later. I found that Gipsy Moth had sailed 2½ miles during the hour.

  One day the wind pressed me out of the Labrador current into the Gulf Stream. This set Gipsy Moth back 18 miles, the Gulf Stream averaging three-quarters of a knot. It was unfortunate from a racing sailor's point of view, but from a personal viewpoint it was wonderful – a perfect fine day, with pale blue sky and deep blue sea sparkling in the sun. Now and then Gipsy Moth sailed through a lane of dark yellow seaweed from the Sargasso Sea. I thought that here was the occasion to change for dinner, to put on my green velvet smoking jacket which I had hopefully carried from England hanging in the clothes locker, and to sit down to a royal feast of grapefruit; cold salmon, with fresh potatoes and onions; ginger nuts and Danish blue cheese (a specialité de la maison); almonds and raisins; coffee. But it was not to be. When the time came for dinner, I was too tired. All through this voyage I had been racing much harder than in 1960, changing the sails more often, and trimming them more frequently. Preparing my daily reports, making contact with London, and transmitting, used up about an hour a day, navigation filled up to two hours, and the antics necessary to charge the batteries used up between half an hour and three hours a day. Usually it was so late at night before I could sit down to my third meal that I wanted to drop down asleep immediately afterwards, with restless dreams to follow. When I cut down to two major meals a day I felt much fitter for it.

  At 6 a.m. on 1 July (ship's time was now the same as New York time, five hours earlier than British Summer Time) I had been thirty days out from Plymouth. I was still 340 miles short of New York.

  Shortly before this I sailed out of the Gulf Stream and back into the Labrador current again. I was now in fog, and the sea was greenish. A few hours earlier I had been on the foredeck in swimming shorts an hour before midnight; now I lit the Aladdin stove. Soon I was becalmed in thin fog on George's Shoal. Trawlers hooting in the fog were passing unseen to and fro all around. Trawlers presumably indicated fish, so I rousted out my line and streamed it overboard. When below again, I heard an uncanny quiet plunk! ending in a sigh. 'Aha,' I thought, stepping into the cockpit, 'I know that sound.' I was in the middle of a large school of whales, and three of them were headed straight for the stern of the boat. Sensitive animals like whales, I thought, must know that the boat is there, but, as they came on unswerving, my confidence vanished. I believe that many small boat disappearances have been due to whales. Those charging Gipsy Moth were only small ones; 15 to 25 feet long, but they were big enough, and I picked up my horn and blew the hardest blast I could. Twenty feet off they dived under the stern and came up 50 feet away on the other side. There were a lot – I thought about 100 – milling round at speed. Suddenly they all dashed off towards the west at full speed, leaving a seething white wake. Then I noticed an equally big school coming at full speed from the west. They met head on, and there seemed to be about an acre of seething boiling white water where they milled round madly. Then, as one, they all dived, the surface became smooth again, and I saw them no more. Were they meeting for love or for war? I wondered. Had those three rushing headlong at Gipsy Moth thought she was one of the other school? I hauled in my fishing line, taking it as a hint that my efforts were not approved of. I was grateful when a breeze crept in, and Gipsy Moth was able to steal away from the fog-bound shoal.

  That evening I had a fright. I had been charging the batteries and when I switched off to listen for trawlers I heard water running. I snatched up the trapdoor in the cabin floor, and found the bilge full of water. It was a blood-freezing sight. Where was the hole? Could I find it, and stop the inrush before the ship sank? These questions flashed on my brain as I started to search.

  It was only the pipe bringing in seawater to the cooling jacket of the motor which had parted. The bilge was not full of water, it was only half full. Now I could laugh at the joke, but it called for a celebration that it was nothing worse. After due thought I set to work and made a
do-it-yourself repair of the joint. I wondered what else could turn up to interfere with the battery charging.

  On 2 July at 2.20 p.m. I saw my first mark since the Eddystone Light – a whistle buoy abeam – and a few hours later the Texas Tower that I had hoped to see from the shoals in 1960. If I had only known it, Sheila was looking down at me. She was flying across, and Jim Percy, knowing my position from London, had diverted the plane a few miles to pass overhead. Sheila recognised Gipsy Moth 5 miles below her.

  My repair to the water pipe seemed successful, but it was not long after I started charging again before an exhaust flame showed through my exhaust pipe repairs. Once more I donned the old black raincoat I kept for dirty work on the motor, and worked away in acute discomfort to botch up another repair.

  When next I looked at the Texas Tower I saw the three white domes standing high above the horizon on long stilted legs – a mirage. I had a fascinating view through my binoculars of the sun setting. Because of the mirage, it looked like an untidy heap of red-hot metal dumped on the horizon. Gradually it flattened and widened and as it disappeared I was able to see the famous green flash magnified seven times.

  Next day the American coast was undoubtedly close. I was surrounded by fishing launches, with high latticed towers, and as many as five men standing on them, one above the other, watching with fanatic intentness for signs of fish. This was my first day without bread, for I found my last loaf too mouldy to eat. At 7.45 in the evening I had my first sight of land for thirty-two days – Block Island.

  That night I was sailing fast along the coast of Long Island, a few miles off shore. By midnight I was pushing my eyelids up to keep awake, and the frustrated longing to sleep was painful. The wind was slowly veering and heading me in towards the land and I dared not risk sleeping. Forty-five minutes after midnight the other tack, off-shore, had become equally good. I tacked, and as I was now headed out to sea in the direction of the Bahamas I immediately flopped into my bunk and went to sleep. At 5.25 in the morning I woke and rolled my eye to the telltale compass beside my berth. What I saw was the letter N, for North. It meant that I was headed right for Long Island. I was out of my bunk and into the cockpit in record time. Day was breaking, and there was land dead ahead, but still 2 miles ahead, thank God. The wind had continued to veer through the night, and Gipsy Moth, keeping her same course relative to the wind, had veered with it, until she was pointing dead ashore. After I had calmed down, I pondered on why I had woken up then instead of thirty minutes later. I believe that the instinct for danger is latent in man, and becomes active as the senses sharpen during a long period alone. I believe that it was this same instinct which woke me when I was near the fishing steamer on the Grand Banks.

  Later the wind backed, but not enough for me to clear the south coast of Long Island, and I was making short tacks off shore each time I sailed in too close to the beach. I was looking at the damsels sunbathing on the beach when I was intrigued to see a large Stars and Stripes run up the flagpole of a beach house. Not realising, as an ignorant Englishman, that 4 July was Independence Day, I wondered if they were taking Gipsy Moth with her White Ensign flying for a British invasion.

  At last I reached a point where Gipsy Moth would just clear the gently curving coast at the south end of Long Island. I studied the chart to make sure there were no obstructions ahead, and then set about preparing lunch before having a nap. By the grace of God I popped my head up through the hatch for a look round, and found that Gipsy Moth was headed for the middle of a great long line of poles emerging from the sea at all angles, and stretching half a mile off shore. When I came close I found that they were linked together by heavy cables, and had big nets suspended from them, which were presumably used as fish ponds. Had I relied on the chart I should have charged right into the middle of them.

  As the daylight faded I could see the three flashes of the Ambrose Light Vessel, my finishing mark. I called up London and told John Fairhall that the Ambrose Light was in sight. This was 3,000 miles away and thinking of all the difficulties I had had to keep the transmitter going I had a surge of feeling with the thought, 'Well that's finished!' Then John took me aback by saying, 'Please call me again when you have actually crossed the line.' After talking to him day after day, very often with an awkward situation at my end, there was something between us, and I reluctantly agreed.

  I called up the Ambrose Light Vessel and asked the operator there to time my arrival. Two welcoming launches arrived, but the light was too dusky to see who was on board. The time of my finish was 9.07 p.m. Then the fun began.

  To reach the Ambrose Light I had been beating into a freshening wind. Immediately I turned the Light, I had to reset my sails, retrim Miranda and start running downwind for New York. It was nearly dark, and I had no idea where I was to go. I had assumed that someone on one of the launches would tell me, and I had not studied the charts. I thought that the bigger launch was Laurie Hamilton's; who had been so friendly to us at Indian Point in 1960. The launch took up a position astern, just out of hearing range, and resolutely kept position there, as if I had the plague. I was darting about, retrimming, trying to see ahead. In the dark I seemed to be surrounded by launches. I had promised to call up London again. I connected up the aerial and darted below to switch on the set and warm it up. I had a nightmare Alice-in-Wonderland feeling of charging into the unknown dark, surrounded by a circle of baleful red or green eyes, like wolves waiting to pounce on an exhausted prey. Immediately I got London I snapped that I was across the line and must close down, which I immediately did. I dragged out a chart and tried to study it in the cockpit with a torch. Between whiles, I hurriedly scanned ahead, to see if I was on a collision course with any of the launches, or with the huge buoys lining the steamer lane into New York. I decided on a heading and stuck to it. I could see that I should need to keep a sharp look-out for buoys. I knew that I ought to lower my sails and get information, or reduce sail and speed, but Gipsy Moth was by now going like a bat in Hell, with a great sailing breeze, tearing up New York harbour in the dark. It was exhilarating and exciting. The pilotage was difficult, because of the countless lights all round; shore lights in the background, steamer lights, buoys winking red ahead, and navigation lights of smaller craft near me. One craft near abeam which I could see silhouetted against the shore lights appeared to be a powerful naval or Customs launch. To the north, hundreds of big fireworks were shooting into the air. I assumed that was a normal evening's performance at Coney Island, not connecting it with Independence Day. On reaching the narrows I kept on for Staten Island, 16 miles from Ambrose Light. As I branched into the Hudson River, still at a grand pace, the pilotage became trickier still. There seemed to be lights not only in every direction, but also up in the air. Suddenly I spotted a small white light away to starboard, small and low-powered among the thousands of lights all round. Then I noticed a red navigation light away to port. Something puzzled me there, I don't know what. I stared intently. Then, out of the night, took shape the extra blackness of a long string of unlit barges, perhaps a quarter mile long, right across my path. I was headed straight for the middle of them. 'That's enough,' I said to myself, and rounded up into wind.

  And so ended the thousand miles along the eastern seaboard, which may have been the most wonderful sail I shall ever have.

  CHAPTER 32

  HOME AND AWAY

  In the middle of the night I was in a dock at Staten Island, having a welcome from Sheila who, I now discovered, had been aboard Laurie's motor yacht all the time. Before I got off Gipsy Moth, Laurie said that he had an important telegram. Standing on the dark dockside above me, shining a torch and with Alistair Cooke, the writer, beside him, he read out a most complimentary telegram. 'I would like to extend my hearty congratulations to you on your successful new record-breaking crossing of the Atlantic Stop Your skill and gallantry as a sailor are already well known but this new achievement will certainly cap your career Stop And we are particularly pleased that you have arri
ved in the United States on July 4 the great historic day in United States history when we celebrate our independence = John F. Kennedy.'

  It always abashes me if someone important in the world uses his valuable time and thought to send me a message. In the morning, when I woke up, Laurie produced another exciting telegram, this time from Prince Philip, which read, 'Delighted to see that you have achieved your ambition to beat your own record Stop All members of the Guild and millions of other admirers send their heartiest congratulations on a magnificent achievement = Philip.'