Quest for Adventure

by Chris Bonington

  John Ridgway had no trouble in getting sponsorship. He was still a celebrity, a name that the press could recognise, that manufacturers could use to promote their products. In 1966 he and Chay Blyth had made a name for themselves by being the first to row the Atlantic in his Cape Cod dory, English Rose III. Originally Ridgway had intended to enter the 1968 Atlantic single-handed race and had been promised a boat for this; with Chichester’s successful circumnavigation, he changed his mind, but for a time used the single-handed race as a cover to keep his own plans secret. He did confide in Chay Blyth, however, never thinking that this one-time partner might become a competitor. Ridgway and Blyth had been a wonderful partnership on their Atlantic row, but afterwards the publicity, the pressures of money and ego took their toll in a way that so often happens when the spotlight goes on the world of shared adventure. Team spirit had given way to rivalry. Blyth’s spirit of competition was immediately kindled when he heard that Ridgway was entering the Atlantic single-handed race. He told me: ‘For Christ’s sake, knowing John as I did then, if he could do this thing, there was absolutely no way in the world that I could not.’

  This sense of competition was probably kindled by the stress that had already entered their relationship, with Ridgway getting the lion’s share of attention after their rowing the Atlantic. At this stage Blyth did not have a boat, had never sailed before and knew nothing of navigation, but with the same dogged but practical determination that he had rowed the Atlantic, he started preparing for the voyage, getting the loan of a production model thirty-foot family cruiser, Dytiscus III. Then, when he learned that Ridgway had changed his objective to a solo circumnavigation, he did so as well. Ridgway felt a great sense of betrayal, partly because he thought Blyth should have told him earlier, but there also seems to have been a feeling that Blyth had broken a partnership – even though Ridgway was doing this equally on his own account.

  Donald Crowhurst, who had been so scathing about Chichester’s reception, had also entered the lists. A keen weekend sailor with his own boat, he was certainly more experienced than Chay Blyth, but he had never exposed himself to the levels of risk and hardship that Blyth had known both on the Atlantic and in the course of his work in the Parachute Regiment. Crowhurst was thirty-five, happily married and the father of four young children. He was born in India where his father had worked on the railways, but they returned to Britain at the time of Independence, when the family went through the painful process of transition faced by so many ex-colonial families. Donald Crowhurst was doing moderately well at Loughborough College when he was forced to leave after getting his school certificate, his father having died of a heart attack and his mother being desperately hard up. He joined the RAF and continued his studies in electrical engineering at Farnborough Technical College, eventually learning to fly and getting a commission.

  The story could have been the same as that of Ridgway –or, for that matter, myself – but in Crowhurst there was always a need to be the centre of attention, to seem to be the daring leader of practical jokes, of wild pranks, racing round in souped-up cars (he owned a Lagonda for a time, until he smashed it). The adventure was superficial, of the barroom variety. One of Crowhurst’s pranks led to him being asked to leave the RAF, so he went into the army, was commissioned, but continued to lead the same sort of life. He lost his licence for a variety of driving offences and was finally caught trying to borrow someone’s car without their permission. This led to the resignation of his commission.

  Shortly after this he met Clare, an attractive dark-haired Irish girl who was captivated by his whirlwind courtship and mercurial personality. They got married and, after a number of unsatisfactory jobs in electronics, settled in Bridgwater, Somerset, where he set up in business manufacturing electronic aids for yachts on the South Devon coast. He had excellent ideas, but was less adept at putting them through and by 1967 his small company, Electron Utilisation, was very nearly bankrupt. The challenge of sailing round the world, therefore, was immensely attractive on several levels. He enjoyed pottering about in his boat; still more, he loved the grand gesture, the boast of out-sailing Chichester round the world; also, it seemed to present a wonderful solution to the vexing and dreary problems besetting him in his business. Once he had been round the world there would be plenty of acclaim and money; people really would sit up and take notice. At the time it appeared to be an attractive way out of all his tribulations.

  But at the moment he was unknown and had a packet of debts. His first idea was to approach the Cutty Sark Trust, who were planning to put Gipsy Moth IV on permanent display alongside the famous clipper Cutty Sark at Greenwich. Crowhurst suggested that it was a waste of a good boat to mount it in concrete, when she could be immortalised still further by a non-stop circumnavigation of the world, and he offered to charter her for a fee of £5,000. He bombarded the Trust with letters, approached Lord Dulverton, the owner, and when he proved unresponsive lobbied through the yachting press, getting a great deal of support for his request; but the Trust remained adamant and he did not get the boat. Chichester was consulted at this stage and made some enquiries about Crowhurst’s sailing background, quickly discovering that he had no real ocean-sailing experience and was little more than a competent offshore yachtsman. Crowhurst was undeterred, however, and continued to seek a boat and sponsorship.

  The idea of sailing around the world non-stop had been a natural evolution inspired by Chichester’s voyage, but perhaps it was inevitable that, once it became obvious that several sailors wanted to make the voyage, someone should try to turn it into a race. Robin Knox-Johnston, through his agent, George Greenfield, who also represented Francis Chichester, had approached the Sunday Times for sponsorship for the voyage. The editor, Harold Evans, stalled in giving a reply, having already heard that Knox-Johnston was not the only one planning to make the attempt. Murray Sayle, a swashbuckling Australian journalist who had handled the Chichester story for the Sunday Times, was told to have a look at the field and report back on who was most likely to succeed. He came up with ‘Tahiti Bill’ Howell, an Australian dentist with a good ocean-racing record who was planning to enter the Observer single-handed Atlantic race and then continue round the world. In the event, he abandoned the round-the-world project. Of all the contestants Sayle dismissed Knox-Johnston with his slow old boat, his down-to-earth modest manner and lack of sailing experience as the least likely to win.

  It was at this stage that the Sunday Times decided to declare it a race, thus ensuring that, as race organisers, they would automatically get good coverage of all the contestants whether or not they had bought their exclusive stories. Their main worry was that the sailors who had already made their plans, and in some cases were sponsored by rival newspapers, might not want to play the Sunday Times’ game. Features editor, Ron Hall, and Murray Sayle found an ingenious solution to the problem. For a start they did not require a formal entry into the race, merely laying down that departure and return should be recorded – as it inevitably would be – by a national newspaper or magazine. Boats could, therefore, set out from where and when they liked. But because it was felt dangerous to encourage anyone to arrive in the Southern Ocean before the end of the southern winter, or not to be past Cape Horn before the beginning of the following winter, starting dates were restricted to between 1 June and 31 October 1968. Obviously, the boats which set out earliest would have the best chance of getting round first, even though they might not make it in the fastest time. It was decided, therefore, to have two prizes – a trophy which was to be the Golden Globe, for the first round, and a cash prize of £5,000 for the fastest time. This would also have the attraction of extending interest in the race even after the first entrant had got home.

  In the event, all the sailors tacitly accepted the race, though some were more influenced than others by the rules imposed by the race organisers. It raises the question of where adventure ends and organised competition takes over, of whether the quality of the experience was enhanced by th
e introduction of a formal race, admittedly with a very loose set of rules. There had been an element of a race already, since each person setting out to sail round the world non-stop wanted to be the first to do it. The situation is similar, in mountaineering terms, to the desire of climbers to be the first to achieve a particularly difficult climb. The media delighted in describing the race as ‘the Mount Everest of sailing’. In the field of mountaineering, however, a direct race for the summit is barely practicable and, anyway, in expedition terms the Himalayan countries have not until recently allowed more than one expedition on any one route up a mountain at the same time. The situation can arise, however. In 1963 I was a member of a team that made the first ascent of the Central Tower of Paine, a granite tower in South Patagonia. After we had been there for about two months, having made very little progress, an Italian team who had the same objective arrived at the foot of the mountain. What evolved was undeniably a race to get to the top first, which I am glad to say we won.

  There is, however, a long tradition of ocean racing, and there was certainly every ingredient of adventure in an attempt to sail single-handed non-stop round the world. The element of racing would add still further stress, for each man would need to push his boat to the utmost, yet if he pushed too hard the boat might not last the course. The test was to prove a harsh one.

  First off the mark was John Ridgway, in English Rose IV. For sentimental reasons he wanted to start from the Aran Islands, his landfall when he rowed the Atlantic. He set out on the earliest date possible, 1 June, acutely aware that his thirty-foot sloop would need all the time he could get to beat the bigger boats which were to set out later on in the summer. Things went wrong from the start. Both the BBC and ITN had sent out camera crews to film his departure. The BBC launch nearly crashed into his stern, threatening the vital self-steering gear. Ridgway, nerves stretched, screamed abuse at them and they veered off, but then the trawler carrying the ITN crew swung in close to get a final telling shot, misjudged it and smashed into the starboard side, splintering the wooden rubbing strip that protected the hull itself. It was impossible to see if there was any structural damage, but Ridgway had a terrible feeling of ill-omen waving for the last time to his wife, Marie Christine, as the trawler swung away. Chay Blyth had sent Ridgway a telegram, ‘Last one home’s a cissy, who cares who wins?’ It was a conciliatory gesture, but both knew that they cared very much who got home first. Blyth set sail a week later on Dytiscus III. He had tried for sponsorship but his lack of sailing experience stood against him.

  ‘They always brought in some retired naval officer,’ he told me, ‘and then asked very intricate questions about navigation and, of course, I had no idea at all. They’d then ask intricate questions about sailing and I wouldn’t know the answers to those either. The interviews always came to an abrupt halt.’

  But he had persevered, using most of the profits from his row across the Atlantic to finance the voyage. He learnt navigation at night and had a fortnight’s sailing instruction, though he reckoned that in the end it amounted to little more than four days’ actual practical experience. His replies to the queries of reporters about his motives and attitudes were down to earth:

  ‘Out there it’s all black and white. I’m not particularly fond of the sea, it’s just a question of survival. I may come back as queer as a nine-bob note. But one day Saint Peter will say to me, “What did you do?” and I’ll tell him. He’ll say, “What did you do?” and you’ll say, “I was a reporter”.’

  But he set out full of confidence, certain that he could beat at least one man – his old mate Ridgway.

  Six days later Robin Knox-Johnston set sail from Falmouth in Suhaili. His little group of sponsors from the Sunday Mirror and the publishers Cassell had come down to see him off. They had become a close-knit team, very confident in their man, Knox-Johnston, who had submitted to a going-over by a psychiatrist and been judged ‘distressingly normal’. He was sure that even though his boat was not fast enough to make the quickest circumnavigation he would most certainly get round. He also displayed a healthy aggressiveness when, irritated by a Sunday Times reporter, he threatened to throw him into the harbour. It is unlikely that Knox-Johnston would have allowed any of the media’s boats to get close enough to collide with him as he sailed for the line outside Falmouth harbour.

  It would be over two months before anyone else set sail, but these three contestants needed all the time they could get if they were to stay ahead of the bigger and faster boats that were to set out later on in the season. They settled down in their different ways to the long run in down the Atlantic which provides the introduction to the rigours of the Southern Ocean.

  John Ridgway found the solitude difficult to cope with, becoming almost obsessively worried about the damage done in the collision at the start as he sailed past Madeira, and then on down over the equator into the Southern Atlantic. The boat slammed into the swell, juddering with the impact of each wave. Ridgway had already noticed some hairline cracks in the deck around the after shroud plate, which held one of the stays; but now the deck around it was bulging while the cracks opened and closed, bubbling spray. If it should pull away, the mast would probably go as well; not a pleasant prospect in the empty reaches of the Southern Atlantic. Even more serious, his wireless transmitter had failed so that there was no chance of calling for help. He did his best to repair the damage, replacing and strengthening the plate, but the deck continued to bulge ominously and the prospects of entering the Southern Ocean with a damaged boat, without wireless communication, became increasingly intimidating. At last, on 16 July, some 600 miles south of the equator, Ridgway admitted defeat and swung westward for Recife, on the Brazilian coast.

  Chay Blyth got further than Ridgway, sailing Dytiscus III into the great Southern Ocean round the Cape of Good Hope, but on the way down his self-steering gear was damaged and in order to radio South Africa for spare parts to be sent out from England, he took on some fuel for his generator from a yacht, Gillian Gaggins, which he passed near Tristan da Cunha. He reached East London, on the South African coast, on 13 September, to be told that he was disqualified from the race. He replied, ‘I don’t see how the Sunday Times can disqualify me when I never entered the race’. He was determined to go on and, having repaired his self-steering gear, set out into the Southern Ocean.

  Quite apart from lacking experience, his boat was not suitable for the huge seas he encountered. He told me:

  ‘The boat was similar to John’s in that she had a bilge keel, but mine was much more buoyant in the stern; she was fine until we reached the Roaring Forties. What used to happen was that the buoyancy would lift the arse end up and so she’d go down a wave and start burying her nose. Two things can then happen; you can either pitchpole, which means the boat does a somersault, or you can broach, which means the boat swings ninety degrees to the oncoming wave and is then pushed along sideways and can go right over so that it capsizes. At least with a monohull you always come up again since there is so much weight underneath you.

  ‘Chichester talks about being capsized once; well, I was absolutely hopeless really, hadn’t a bloody clue. I capsized three times in one hour and eleven times in a day. And I thought this was part and parcel of sailing – I really did! The boat would go BANG and you’d get thrown all over the place; kit would go everywhere and I’d say, “Geez, that was pretty tough”, and then you’d get up. The steering gear went again and then I thought, “You’ve got to make a decision”. And the decision to pack it in is always much worse – I think it’s easier to die really. The decision to pack up is bloody terrible.’

  Chay Blyth swung back to East London, the second competitor to fail. His greatest triumph was still to come when, in the early 1970s, he sailed the ketch British Steel single-handed non-stop round the world – the wrong way, from east to west against the prevailing winds and currents.

  By this time Robin Knox-Johnston, in Suhaili, had caught up and passed Blyth. His trip down the Atlantic had
been full of event, some of which might easily have forced him out of the race. On the sixteenth day out from Falmouth, on 30 June, he noticed that Suhaili was taking in much more water than she should. He got past the Cape Verde Islands, then donned snorkel and flippers and went over the side to discover exactly what was wrong. He found a frightening gap, more than eight feet long, along the seam where the keel was joined on to the hull; it opened and closed as Suhaili pitched and rolled in the water. It was easy to imagine what would happen in the ferocious seas of the Southern Ocean.

  He swam back to the surface, lit a cigarette and thought out a problem that I suspect would have defeated most of the contestants in the Golden Globe race. He described his repairs in his book, A World of my Own.

  ‘Having decided that caulking was the answer, I had to think of some way of doing it five feet below water. Normally dry twisted raw cotton is hammered into the seam, stopped with filling compound and painted over, but I could not do that. I decided to try and do the job with cotton anyway and hope that the fact that it would be wet would not make too much difference. We had had to do just the same thing when in the middle of the Arabian Sea, but it had not been easy, and at least I had had two other people helping me and keeping a lookout for sharks. This time I would have to do the job on my own and hope that I would notice any sharks whilst they were still circling.