Alone Across the Atlantic Read online

  The noise the seas made was terrific. So much that I several times started getting out of my berth thinking the yacht had been struck by a steamer or that the mast had gone overboard. One sea last night when I was asleep not only jumped me up in the air from my berth but lifted the heavy tight-fitting wooden settee on which I was sleeping and dumped it out of place so that I had to get out and put it back again. But sailors don’t care, they say.

  What a marvellous feeling when you find the boat is sailing on regardless. I reckon she is damn solidly built. Good luck to Jack Tyrrell of Arklow in Eire, who built her. But by heavens I wish he had kept the leprechauns out of of the locker fittings. Half the doors and lockers spring open when things are hectic.

  All the same, I wouldn’t swap places with any person in the world at present. I am only disappointed in the delay for I admit I greatly hoped to make a fast trip which would be hard to beat. However, I’m still in the race.

  I wonder how such hard weather affected the other chaps. Undoubtedly I must lose a lot of time by taking longer over sail changes so that frequent changes of wind and weather favour them. I can’t see them doing much less worse, better if you like, than me in heavy weather. If it was hard for me to make any headway against those seas and wind it must surely be worse for 5-tonners. I think they will gain now that it is a light breeze.

  I believe that black-bearded Viking will sail faster than I in light airs. He has a lot of sail for his folkboat and I expect also that his boat would point closer to the wind than G. M. III. What I need is a steady reaching wind of Force 5 for a fortnight. I ought to have an advantage then. Other than that the Viking will gain in several ways. No effort for him to change sails or tack and without delay too while I lie asleep. I ought to have named this vessel Gipsy Tortoise instead of Moth.

  The picture which Tubby Clayton (Toe H) gave me after his service of blessing of the boat on board, a reproduction of an original lithograph of the Tower of London and the Mint still stands apparently undamaged though backed up to a wet-speckled cabin wall. (Tubby would have made a wonderful map and guide publisher… his knowledge of London is amazing and fascinating.)

  My framed picture of Sheila did not fare so well. Water penetrated the frame and – because of the salt, I suppose – played havoc with the photograph itself as if it continued to develop the print. I am sorry because it is a lovely portrait of her when we were married, photographed by Lenare; I fear it is not replaceable.

  15th June. 0430 GMT … I’m staying in my berth awhile to see if what might be a black squall ahead is or not. It was still dark night when I got up just now and went out for my two-hourly inspection. I had expected to find it light enough to turn out the Tilley lamp in the stern but I had forgotten that, with the longitude west increasing, dawn is later every day by four minutes per degree of longitude. Assuming of course one sticks to Greenwich Mean Time on one’s clock – and watches.

  There is something pretty awe-inspiring if you go up on deck at night when there is a bright light in the stern. At first it seems that black Hades is rushing past. Then one’s eyes get accustomed and one begins to see there is a sky after all. Now with dawn lightening the sky astern it begins to look more friendly.

  I wanted some biscuits while waiting and sipping a cup of tea from the thermos. I know the boat is stuffed with biscuits but could I find a packet without unpacking a deep drop-locker behind the stove (not a job to be done lightly). Everywhere I looked I seemed to be baulked by David’s niceties – dehydrated antibiotics for fiery appendices for example or shark repellent.

  Damn! I put my dry trousers in what I thought was a dry place and it turns out to be wet. The only thing to do if you have some dry clothes is to wear them while asleep. Well, here is the squall; I must go on deck.

  0600 hrs. It was short but sharp. I had to get the genoa off. I lowered it flapping madly, dragged it out of the water bit by bit (at least it was quiet in the water) and lashed it to the weather life rail.

  It is calm now but I think there is another squall ahead, so I have not set any foresail. I’m hoping I can leave the main unreefed because I don’t want to use up any more energy than I have to.

  I went out barefoot and found it a success. I stubbed my toe really hard when hauling on the main halliard. It was so painful that I could not bear a shoe on it. I had great trouble yesterday afternoon keeping my balance. I thought at first it was the Guinness I had for lunch but later decided it was the damaged toe. Just now without anything on it to hurt it I had no trouble about balance. The question now is, shall I change into dry things or remain on call in my wet ones. I think I’ll go out again now, reef the main and then turn in for some more sleep.

  0730. In the end there was another squall and I lowered the main in a hurry to avoid damage. Then I decided to call it a morning, furled the main, topped up the vane spanker and handed the log.

  We are rolling like I don’t know what. There is a breeze between squalls but I intend to have a sleep first. Plenty more squalls ahead by the look of it.

  1340. The barometer is still high at 30 inches so perhaps it is only a trough of low pressure going through. In a way I couldn’t bear to set fair weather sails again today.

  I’ve seldom had a fuller morning. After an hour’s sleep I got out of the blankets at 0900, looked at the weather and got back again. A dirty morning, plenty of wind, a lumpy sea, cloud nearly on the deck, nasty dark storm stuff around. Much better wait a few hours in the hope of its changing and save my strength. However, after a few minutes I got out and dressed in my wet clothes. Nothing cheers up a man less than getting into sodden clothes. But the yacht is smothered in wet things already so I wasn’t going to wet another set.

  Everything takes so long in bad weather, dressing for example when unable to stand without using one hand to hold on with. What a morning! I didn’t finish till 1230 – 3 hours to set sail and the rest. It took me 1½ hours to hoist the main and reef it. This sounds absurd I suppose, but one item alone is to get the 18-foot main boom topped up off the deck without busting gear or being knocked out.

  I had to balance on the counter aft of the boom-end swinging to and fro and slack off the main sheet with one hand while I hauled on the topping lift with the other – Oh! for the strength of that black-bearded giant! – Then, as I couldn’t turn into wind to hoist the main, the slides jammed in the track and the sail with its battens fouled the lee shroud and runner.

  During all this picnic the boat is rolling like, well, you know what, and bucking, rain falling in plenty with periodic sluices of sea. One can feel desperate with all the to-do but I doled out good advice to myself: Don’t hurry! Take it slowly! You are bound to get it done sooner or later.

  I consoled myself with the thought of what a ridiculous figure I must look barefooted, Jaeger’s long woollen scarlet underfugs down to my ankles, black oilskin down to my knees and a dark-blue deerstalker down to my chin.

  I nearly got the main up when the flogging of the sail against the shroud started a 3-foot batten from its sheath. I hurriedly lowered the sail and managed to grab the batten, now half out of its pocket, before it flew off into the sea. Bit of luck; I have lost one already.

  When I got the main up I wanted to call it a day; but the boat was hardly moving. I think the rudder has to be so hard over when there is no foresail that it acts as a brake and stops the boat. Finally I decided there was nothing for it but to set a jib and I plumped for No. 3 jib which is about 135 square feet. I got out a pair of wire sheets and rove them carefully. Then I cleared the jib-halliard which had got behind the cross-tree.

  Finally I hoisted the jib. The boat sprang forward at once and began charging through the seas, bashing through. It was quite thrilling and I got a good satisfaction at having stuck at it.

  Of course, the jib sheet was in the wrong place, on the wrong side of a life-line and I had to bring round the other sheet from the weather side and hold the jib on a cleat while I changed the wrongly aligned sheet. Then I bagged
up the genoa full of salt water.

  Meanwhile the signal halliard had been broken by the runner flying round but it had got fouled after parting and I had the luck to catch the end before it disappeared aloft. After fixing that, I noticed that a shackle on the topping lift had failed or unshackled itself. Again I was lucky enough to catch the flying block of the topping lift before it went aloft where I pictured it twined round a cross-tree. It was a bit dicey, as I had to balance on top of a winch in order to reach the flying block but I had on a life-line.

  After all this fun and games I thoroughly enjoyed my breakfast at 1315 hrs. Now at 1420 hrs. the weather looks like improving and the wind is dropping. What a life! It will just have to keep dropping for an hour or two while I have a quick zizz and work out a position from radio beacons. At least we are headed right, 290° on the compass. I must just pop out and see how the log reads since setting the jib.

  11½ miles in 1 hr. 55 min. = exactly 6 knots. Amazing how she sprang forward charging through the waves as soon as I hoisted the little jib.

  1530 hrs. Wind veering, headed us to 330° – Marston Tickell would be pleased. I have somewhere on board his essay on ‘It pays to be headed’. Amazing what fine racing sailors the Royal Engineers make.

  I stirred myself and emerged. Tried to get on a boot to keep dry but my blackened toe would not stand it. Nearly midsummer and I am wearing thick woollen underpants (long edition), track pants of woolly stuff (right shape these for boating), Viyella shirt, sleeveless jersey (knitted by Sheila years ago) plus a thick woollen sweater.

  I hardened up the sheets of jib and main and retrimmed Miranda. New course 310°. Thank heaven, enough wind still to justify not shaking out the reef or setting a larger headsail.

  Now for a cup-of and position-fixing by radio beacons. Still making 6 knots by the way. It’s odd that a full cup of tea can sit on the swinging table whereas I can’t hold one without spilling it. The table is beaten, however, when the yacht pig-jumps and the cup jumps up. It looks to me as if a yacht ought to have a swinging seat combined with the table; one could then pursue one’s knitting urbanely regardless of the effects of the elements.

  1600 hrs. Position by radio beacons and dead reckoning 48° 10’ N. 10° W. Best course for New York … 291 ° compass. It is rather a poor showing that we are only 270 miles on our way in a straight line from Plymouth in 4¼ days, an average of 2·7 knots or only 65 miles a day. But what miles of physical jerks included!

  The beacons I used for the fix were Cabo Vilano in Spain, Ushant in France and Round Island, Scilly Isles. Would like to have used Mizen Head in S. Eire but Vilano was signalling at the same time and drowned Mizen Head. Another day should put me near the limit of the radio beacons and I shall have to trundle out the old sextant.

  I want three days dry, sunny weather. I should say half the contents of the whole yacht need taking out and drying. For instance I found the little sail of Giles’s sailing dinghy which I am carrying on deck (I mean the dinghy; the sail was in the sail stowage) was running with water. However it is no good worrying about that at present.

  Blast! the wind is moderating. I shall have to turn out again and set a bigger jib, I suppose. The weather looks horrible still. Dull misty murk all round with low cloud or mist nearly on the sea. The sea is moderating too, though a crasher landed on top of the cabin a few minutes ago. Probably only a couple of bucketfuls but it sounded very impressive.

  I wonder how my rivals have fared. None of them could lose all the time it costs me to handle my big sails but if I can’t stand up in this 13-tonner without holding on what must it be like in a 5-ton folkboat? If they don’t get seasick with the twisting and dancing, they must have the internal layout and spleen of a boa constrictor. The idea of a black-bearded boa-constrictor is quite a novelty.

  Midnight. Chagrin. The Tilley lamp went out in the stern. I switched on the masthead light, no response, then the navigation sidelights, no response. I found the new port and starboard lights fuse had gone as did a new one I put in. A new fuse for the masthead light made no difference so I suppose the bulb has gone. No lights.

  It’s a queer feeling charging through the night in bad visibility. The mist, almost fog, if not in fact fog, only gives a few hundred yards’poor visibility. With that bright light shining it is not so bad. I lit the Tilley again and now keep watch like an anxious hen fussing over its chick.

  At 1830 hrs. I could see I was losing a lot of speed by not carrying more sail. I set to work at once and though I consider I know the drill fairly well it took me 1¼ hours: chiefly to change the No. 3 jib for the big genoa. I had a lot of sheeting hold-ups. Usually that’s the trouble with complicated settings, I had been using the genoa block for the No. 3 wire sheet. By trying to introduce a new block, which was an inch or two higher above the sheeting rail I got an overrun on the winch. An incoming turn overrode the previous turn on the winch drum. With a powerful sail like that genoa this is a serious labour. Maybe the easiest way of dealing with it in the long run is to lower the sail and start afresh.

  After trying one or two ideas which all failed I succeeded with a very simple one, I fastened another rope to the iron-bar tight sheet and took the strain on the mainsail winch. I think the naval term is ‘clapping a jigger on to a cable’. I only mention this to explain where the time went.

  As I took the proper strain on the genoa sheet an extraordinary phenomenon occurred. The yacht went quiet and was off. I felt she smiled to herself and said, ‘This is what I’ve been waiting for.’ She has a queer movement, a sort of quivering undulating or wobbling as if she were shaking her powerful haunches in a wild silent gallop. No, not gallop, running stride perhaps like an ostrich. I say ostrich though I have only seen cassowaries and emus running really fast with me behind them in my aeroplane. I wish I could describe this movement. No fuss, no disturbed wake no noise but still it was hard to stand up.

  For two hours she did 8¼ knots and is still averaging 7½. This with a double reefed main. It seems pretty eerie on a dark foggy night. I’ve given up shoes and boots and I’m grateful that my port settee berth and the pilot berth alongside are both dry. I did not have to dip the gash bucket in the sea for salt water. I dipped it out of the self-draining cockpit. Dinner was difficult – once I pitched into the galley stove and knocked it off its swinging frame – but I had a meal nevertheless.

  5. June 16th to 18th

  The Sick Tilley – Miranda’s Slip – Ideal Sailing – Steamer in

  the Fog – Calm after Rough Night – Calling without Reply

  – Hove To – Loss of Racing Flag – The Twins for the First

  Time – About Washing Up – Talking to Oneself – Gipsy Moth’s

  First Real Run in Her Life – Favourable Breeze – The Moth

  16th June. 0145 hrs. Tilley went out again at a quarter to one. Blew back this time for a change. Seems a bit off-colour tonight. I wish David had given me a potion for a sick Tilley. I lit her up again but also fished out the copper riding light which has never been lit. I have turned it up and it now sits on the table in front of me. Maybe Tilley didn’t know she had an understudy waiting for a chance to take over. Perhaps she will try harder now.

  We are still on our way at 7¾ knots. I would say we are 10° off, hard on the wind. Perhaps Miranda is responsible. She went quiet too as soon as I set that genoa, not a flutter – just a gentle weaving movement like a fish keeping station in a stream. Whereas, before, in the bit of a blow she was flapping and snapping, and jigging about and we were all getting almost nowhere very slowly. I think I shall turn in for a couple of hours till dawn. Dawn last night about 0415 so it won’t be till about 0430 tonight, farther west.

  0920 hrs. I woke near eight o’clock with a start. On the point of springing to the tiller; the yacht had tacked herself. I felt her come upright and then head the other way. Automatically I looked at the pendulum measuring the angle of heel – as I was getting out of the blanket – and was astonished to find the boat was still heeled
25° to starboard. She had merely eased up suddenly from 45°. This illustrates how completely one’s senses can be fooled – as, of course, one knows well from blind flying where one can’t even tell if upside down provided that gravity is first counterpoised by centrifugal acceleration.

  Forgive my prosiness. I want more sleep. I can’t relax when charging through a dark foggy night even if not in a shipping lane. Next my tell-tale compass – what a pal! – told me we were headed up to 350° and once up to north and I girded up my mental loins to spring, however lethargically and reluctantly, to the tiller and change tacks. Then I thought ‘Hold hard a minute. The thinking box is be-fudged, have a cup of coffee first. Anyway, it may save a blunder in handling the gear.’

  So I coffee’d and then read the log and looked at Miranda’s set-up. Firstly she had slipped a little. The incessant jerking had slacked up a bowsie on a tiller-line. It is amazing how those things hold at all. I think I explained that they are only bits of wood with two small holes to take the tiller-line and are meant for taking up the slack in tent-lines. I bought them from the girl guides’shop. I adjusted the lines and found she would steer 310° at a slower speed.

  Then I worked up the dead reckoning from 1600 hrs. yesterday and found that in the present position 49° N. 12 ° W. the magnetic variation is 14 ° W. and as the compass deviation on that heading is 4 ° W., the true direction of 310° on the compass is 294 ° T., so that she can still stay on this tack within 16° of the best course for New York.