Gipsy Moth Circles the World Read online

  There seemed a constant leak of water into the forepeak, so I tried a larger pipe for siphoning it out. I renewed a dressing of sealing compound to the broken cockpit side, fixing plastic sheet all over it with drawing pins, and adhesive tape along the edges. I doubted if it would stick for long, but it was better than nothing.

  Saturday, February 4, found me only 100 miles from my beloved Lord Howe Island, nearly due south of it. This was where I rebuilt my Gipsy Moth seaplane after it was wrecked on my flight from New Zealand to Australia. I felt a great nostalgia for the friendly island, and wished that I could be going there. The sea was moderate, and I set the mainsail after reshaping a bent slide in a vice. After an overcast morning, the afternoon brought a fine hot day, with an azure sky all round. It seemed a good time to go fishing for my lost crockery in the bilge. I fastened a toy bucket to the end of the 6-foot burgee stick, and managed to rescue three bowls, one mug, and one broken jug. Then I got on with the task of tidying up the port side of the cabin—and what a job it all was. There were the contents of the fifteen big Tupperware containers to be restowed, and all listed so that I should know where to find them. I tied down one side of the bunk in four places with laid cord, doubled, and wished that I could lash down everything, though I decided that this was too long a job to tackle then. I collected fragments of glass from the cabin ceiling where the bottle had smashed. I was interested to find that by leaning over the side of the yacht I could watch Warwick Hood’s added keel piece—I could see it cutting through the water like a red shark’s fin.

  In the evening of this Saturday I had a long talk on the radio with Sheila, who told me that the P and O liner Himalaya, when near Sydney, had been struck and damaged by a giant wave at 22.20 on the night of my capsize. No doubt it was the same wave that did me down1

  I was plugging into the Trade Winds, south-east by east in general direction, and I felt that my tactics in deciding to go north-about New Zealand were bad. But as the sea moderated after the cyclone the sun came out, and in spite of being on the wind most of the time, the yacht began to average 134 miles a day. There were still occasional big seas which I thumped into, and when this happened Gipsy Moth would be slowed to about three knots. But I kept remembering that in similar conditions on the way out to Sydney, before Warwick Hood doctored the boat, she would have stopped dead. I was a bit puzzled at seeing no flying fish. When I had flown over this sea in 1931, hordes of flying fish would leap from the water whenever I flew just above the surface, but now I saw not one.

  At noon on Sunday, February 5, I was almost exactly halfway between Sydney and Cape Maria Van Diemen, at the northwest tip of the North Island of New Zealand, 550 miles each way. A week out, only 550 miles sailed. My log notes:

  “550 miles in a week is my record for slow going. Of that 550, I took four days to do 185 miles—an average of 46 miles per day! However, I am still alive and kicking, which is the chief thing, I suppose.”

  Throughout these days I was having trouble with the self-steering gear. It seemed unable to control the helm of the boat. I spent many hours trying to coax it to work. I know now that there were two quite different sources of trouble and that one of these was not the fault of the self-steering gear at all. On February 5 I logged:

  “I found that the heading I wanted, namely about 47½° off the true wind while doing about 5½ knots, was most critical; each time I got the sail trim balanced with the self-steering gear disconnected, if I left the boat to sail herself she either came up into wind and would have stopped in irons or else she paid off to 65° or more off the wind going quietly at a great lick but 30 ° off the direction in which I was trying to head.”

  Owing to the shape of the hull the angle of heel was the critical factor and not the heading of 47½° off the true wind as I thought. If the wind increased enough to heel the boat 2 or 3 ° more the forepart of the yacht slithered over the surface of the water until it pointed 30 or 40 ° downwind of the direction in which I was trying to head, whereupon the yacht gathered speed and tore off at a great lick in this wrong direction. If, however, the wind lessened enough to decrease the heel 2 or 3 ° the hull shape was such that the boat at once started griping up to windward until finally it ended up pointing dead into wind and stopped dead. Later when I had at last understood this (second) tricky habit of Gipsy Moth’s, I found there was no way to overcome it except to trim the sails so that Gipsy Moth avoided the critical angle of heel; in other words, I had to sail her more upright than the critical angle or more heeled, but must at all costs avoid having her heeled exactly at the critical angle of heel.

  The second trouble with the self-steering was due to the self-steering oar and its gear being top-heavy. Instead of the oar having a natural tendency to stay upright in the water, being top-heavy it would flop over to one side or the other. In light airs the wind vane had not got enough strength to overcome this flop-over tendency. I experimented with cords attached one each side to the steering oar, fastening these cords so as to keep the oar upright. With this arrangement if the vane wanted to change the heading of the boat it had first to overcome the pull of these cords to make the oar turn. Later I kept the oar upright by fastening four strands of shock cord on each side; these shock cord preventers were anchored one to each side of the pulpit at the stern.

  At this time, however, I had not yet realised the causes of the trouble and I was trying one remedy after another without success. I thought that there might be too much weight on the counterpoise of the wind vane and tried making do with less. I oiled the worm gear which seemed to be sticking. I tried disconnecting the self-steering and balancing the sail trim before connecting up the self-steering again. (Since Warwick’s improvements were made to the keel, Gipsy Moth’s sail trim could be balanced for a short while.) I would also get the self-steering oar balanced and would then connect the self-steering gear to the tiller; but immediately I did so the heading of the boat would change and either she would come up into the wind or pay off downwind. At the time I thought it would drive me barmy but I kept at it day after day trying every way I could think of to make it work. The self-steering performance slowly improved as time went by. I fixed the shock cord preventers to the top of the self-steering oar on February 20 which made it self-righting, as I described earlier. This meant, however, that the vane had to overcome the pull of the shock cord before it could twist the oar.

  I was much better off when I finally discovered about the critical angle of heel. Before that discovery, whenever Gipsy Moth’s heading slipped off to leeward, I had blamed the self-steering gear for being unable to hold the boat to the required heading; whereas, of course, this sliding off to leeward was due to the shape of the hull, and was no fault at all of the self-steering gear.

  Maybe I made a blunder navigationally by not going south of New Zealand, but as Sheila said to me in one of our radio talks, this did give me a chance to “rehabilitate” in warm weather and comparatively kindly seas. On the night of Monday, February 5, I had to say goodbye again to Sheila, when we had our last radio talk before she left Australia for Hong Kong on her way back to England. I was sad to part with her. I restored my morale next morning by having a shave. It was my first since leaving Sydney, and I was thankful to get rid of the irritation on my face from the beard growing there. It was tough shaving, and I had to stop and clean the razor six times when it clogged up and would not work. That shave, with the usual navigation, trimming the self-steering gear, siphoning out the forepeak, and breakfasting took up the whole morning. I spent the rest of the day making a better repair to the cockpit. It was a slow, frustrating job, with difficulties everywhere. I had to search the boat to find materials to make repairs, and it was a hard task to use tools at a big angle of heel. However, I kept at it, a little bit at a time for hour after hour.

  Thursday, February 9, was a good day. The wind veered, and for the first time since leaving Sydney I enjoyed some perfect sailing. It was pleasant, warm weather, and I wore only shorts for working on the fo
redeck. I passed 135 miles south of Norfolk Island, which I had visited on my 1931 flight, and called up the island to say how sorry I was that I could not visit them again. The Administrator, Reginald Marsh, sent me a delightful message, saying, “We feel as if you belong a little to us, because the memory is with many Norfolk Islanders of how in 1931 you brought to them their first aircraft visitor.”

  I saw a Royal New Zealand Air Force plane, looking like a wartime Fortress; I noticed that it had US on its tailfin. Its fuel mixture seemed to be too rich, for there were four trails of black smoke from its engines. I wondered if it was all right, and I began to be a little worried about whether I could accommodate the whole crew on board if they pancaked into the sea. However, there was no trouble. The plane made half a dozen passes at Gipsy Moth, and then flew off. I thought it was a friendly gesture from New Zealand welcoming me.

  Next day I passed North Cape, the north-west tip of New Zealand, about 90 miles off. I had come some 1,300 miles since leaving Sydney, and had 5,400 miles ahead of me to get to Cape Horn. Gipsy Moth was picking up speed and going well, though slowed up a little by the extra keel area. But due to leaving Australia later than I had planned, and the poor showing of the first week, I reckoned that I should be at least three weeks later in reaching Cape Horn than I had hoped. However, that could not be helped, and I went on with my chores; rebaked the last of my loaves from Sydney for the second time because they were mouldy again, painted the repair to the cockpit side, and searched the foredeck for leaks, applying sealing compound to a number of places. I sowed my first crop of cress to provide, I hoped, fresh greenstuff until I reached the Horn, and fixed four sheaves to the stern pulpit to make better leads for the control lines to the self-steering oar.

  Auckland Radio broadcast a warning giving the latitude and longitude of a log of timber afloat, which I noted carefully. Logs and trees carried downwind by flood have always been a hazard round New Zealand. Collision with one could sink a yacht.

  I had a small triumph on Sunday, my second Sunday out from Sydney—I found my missing vacuum flask! It came to light when I turned out my bedding for an airing on deck—it was underneath the mattress. Either I must sleep hard, or that mattress must be good and soft. The flask was smashed to bits inside. The opening through which it must have come as it was flung from the far side of the galley is only 161 inches wide, and my head on the pillow almost framed this opening. I was glad that it had missed me. I noticed a pronounced dent in the deck beam just above my head, and I think that the flask must have struck that.

  To make sure that things that needed doing got done, and were not overlooked in the next crisis, I used to keep a list of jobs in hand from day to day. I called this my “agenda”. It may be of some interest to give my agenda for this period of the voyage. Here it is:

  Check water tank connections

  Secure cockpit locker with hasp (actually I used cordage for

  this)

  Fix preventer to galley drawers

  Try self-steering vane without extra lead

  Freshen nip of tiller lines to self-steering

  Check engine water level

  Stow burgee stick

  Rig tiller tackle to cabin

  Try more slack on self-steering oar

  More solid cockpit repair to keep deck water out

  Drylube tiller lines

  Examine alternator belts

  Dry out cockpit locker

  Open counter ventilator on dry days

  Devise hold-down for tins in settee lockers

  Spray bolt cutters

  Fix starboard foredeck net

  Stop starboard deck ventilator

  Main topping lift

  Start mustard and cress

  Rig tell-tale on self-steering

  Clean Very pistol

  Sort out pole uphauls, downhauls, outhauls and lifts

  More hooks in “cloaks”

  Deal with remains of deck net

  Fix knotted warp for stern drag

  Study camera light meter

  Free Lewmar jammed main sheet slide stop

  Fix lanyards to winch handles

  Refill meths containers and bottle

  Tauten leech in genoa stays’l

  Free head of mains’l caught outboard in backstay

  Check fruit and water

  Sow wheat germ

  Fix pendant for jib halliard

  Fix lanyard for jib snap shackle

  Dry out flying boat sextant box

  Dry out bag of winter woollies

  On calm day, up mast to dud crosstree light

  Devise means of keeping pillow in heeled bunk

  Dry out seat locker by my bunk

  Fix lanyard for bilge pump handle

  Spray e. l. capstan

  Service blast horn

  Fit rope end for pole outboard in place of shackle

  Fix lanyard for reefing handles

  Repair mizzen stays’l anti-chafe patch

  Calm day—paint possible leaks over forepeak

  Fit larger pendants to jib halliards

  Chafe preventers on shrouds

  Repair outhaul foot of mizzen

  Put up more cup hooks

  Remove flying cleats used for trysail tackles

  Deal with leak at foot of my berth

  Rig storm jib sheets

  Renew pin and bolt in self-steering vane as soon as weather makes possible

  Deal with twisted shackle, storm stays’l

  Fix a waterproof torch

  Consider fresh position for inspection lamp, foredeck

  Examine crosstree leads at deck and fuse

  Deal with stays’l halliard twisted round stays

  Check off-course alarm

  Strengthen inspection lamp

  Fix tarred twine for anti-chafe tie backs

  Inspect dead Harrier unit underwater

  Drylube chafing ropes

  Re-lash mizzen 3rd slide up

  Check cabin compass

  Repair bolt of the sheave in the fife rail, loose

  Deck bolt of stern pulpit looks loose

  Freshen nip of all signal halliards

  This list is nowhere near a complete record of the work done on Gipsy Moth IV—it is rather a list of merely extra jobs. It omits all sail changing, radio work, adjustments to the self-steering gear, navigation, all regular work in the galley, and all the back-breaking tasks of tidying up after the capsize. Some of the jobs listed—the cockpit repair, for instance—took several days to get done. Nevertheless, incomplete as it is, my agenda may give some idea of the human effort needed for singlehanded ocean sailing.

  On top of all this, over a period of two or three weeks from the time I passed Norfolk Island, I worked hard at preparing for another capsize. For instance, I fastened down the loose hatch lids of all the cabin settee lockers so that the hundreds of tins, bottles and tools in them could not all break out again as last time. I was puzzled to know how to secure these lids without making them difficult to open when required. Finally I bored a lot of holes, so that I could anchor lengths of ¾-inch cord in the locker below, then pass cords through two holes at each end of the lid and secure the lid by tying the two ends together; I lashed a lanyard to each winch handle and reefing handle so that they would not be lost overboard. Altogether I went through the whole ship securing, where possible, everything that could cause damage or nuisance by breaking loose if the boat rolled over.

  The settee locker with the most dangerous contents in the event of a capsize was the one with the heavy tools in it, such as a vice, big spanners, etc, also a 20-lb lead weight. I had to unload 130 tins from another locker before I could set to work on it. However, I logged: “The thought of all the contents of these lockers hitting the ceiling with a whang gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  Staff Captain Adie of the passenger liner Himalaya, 28,000 tons, was reported as saying, “Chichester can keep the bloody Tasman.”

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  12. Two T
hursdays

  I had now a vast stretch of the Pacific ahead of me, 5,000 miles of the lonely rim of the world. It took mankind almost the whole of human history to discover how vast the Pacific is—almost to the end of the eighteenth century geographers just couldn’t believe that there is so much sea, and insisted on “balancing” the globe with a wholly imaginary Great Southern Continent. It was left to our own James Cook to disprove its existence, and even after he had sailed over what was supposed to be land, some people could not bring themselves to believe him. No one can sail in these seas without thinking of the great seamen in their often cranky sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth century ships who slowly displaced legend with geographical fact, and added to man’s knowledge of the world—Magellan, Drake, Anson, Fernandez de Quiros, Dampier, Bougainville and, above all, Cook. We shared the same ocean and the same storms, but they faced one dreadful hazard that I was spared—scurvy. I read many accounts of scurvy when I was doing the research for my book, Along the Clipper Way, and all of them are horrifying. The worst I know is that in the account of Anson’s voyage round the world, and it is worth setting out again if only to show that man has progressed at least in some directions. Here is an extract from that narrative:

  “Soon after our passing Streights Le Maire, the scurvy began to make its appearance amongst us, and our long continuance at sea, the fatigue we underwent, and the various disappointments we met with, had occasioned its spreading to such a degree that at the latter end of April [1741] there were but few on board who were not in some degree afflicted with it, and in that month no less than forty-three died of it on board the Centurion. But though we thought that the distemper had then risen to an extraordinary height, and were willing to hope that as we advanced to the northward its malignity would abate, yet we found, on the contrary, that in the month of May we lost near double that number; and as we did not get to land till the middle of June, the mortality went on increasing, and the disease extended itself so prodigiously that after the loss of above two hundred men, we could not at last muster more than six fore-mast men in a watch capable of duty.