Atlantic Adventure

by Francis Chichester

  Note: That was just after two a.m. British Summer Time. In spite of the fact that he was in a busy shipway, and had his hands full in navigating Gipsy Moth, Francis found time to dash below and call up London. He just managed to report that he had ‘crossed the line’, and then he signed off, saying that he must get back on deck to see to things. The radio and its batteries kept going to the last. J. R.L.A.

  8. ‘A Marvellous Sail’

  Well, I missed my 30-day record: I took 33 days, 15 hours and 7 minutes. So I am left with my ambition to do it in 30 days. But, you know, it does not depress me at all; it was a marvellous sail.

  I remember when I started ocean racing I analysed the winning time of RORC races over a number of years for Class III yachts, and I believe the majority of those races were won at an average speed of less than a hundred miles a day. This does not sound fast, but consider the effect of four hours of calm per day, how much faster you must sail during the other twenty hours. Then there is the slowing up by a headwind when, for every 5 miles sailed, you advance only 3 miles towards the destination.

  I left with a big feeling of responsibility towards my friends who had put so much faith in my attempt. There was no room for the 1960 romance and sense of adventure, when it was a terrific thrill to arrive both at the starting and finishing line. This time I had to race hard every minute I could. Whenever I knew that a sail would have been changed or retrimmed if I had a full crew, and I did not change that sail because I was exhausted, or for some other reason, it worried me. And one of the hardest things of the voyage was to use sound judgement in deciding what to do. All the time it was weighing up the situation. For instance, the yacht would go faster at this moment if the big genoa were boomed out. Very good; but probably the wind will have backed 100 degrees in four hours, and the time lost in setting and unrigging the big spinnaker pole, during which the sail is doing no work, will produce a net result less than if I jogged along with the original sail setting unchanged. Or this problem might arise just before I was going to sleep, when there was always a strong chance of being awakened by a gust or squall, when handling the 21-foot pole etc. in the dark was a danger to limb in a strong breeze, besides losing time.

  I was thrilled when I covered the first 1,000 miles of the route in ten days, but felt I was losing the battle because conditions had been good up to then. Then came the three-day gale. Being able to beat into a Force 8 gale is something that just could not have been done at all by small yachts a few years ago. But now, in waters like the English Channel, it is a wonderful success for the designers of the modern cruiser-racer. In the broad Atlantic, however, with a really rough, turbulent sea, it is hardly possible to make progress, and it certainly is a hell of an existence. I did stipulate that I could see no hope of making the thirty-day passage without the luck to avoid a storm. Even so, I made the loss of time worse than need be; I made a tactical blunder. The NW. tack looked best for New York, and was the textbook leg to take. I took it—my big mistake. It needs a long explanation; briefly, had I worked south throughout the storm I would have made better use of the prevailing WSW. wind during the following week, without being forced up NE. of Newfoundland.

  After the storm I only lost about two hours over my attempts to keep the pigeon alive, but I was so upset at my failure, due to relationship between man and creature, that I bungled the whole of that day’s sailing. I don’t believe I can ever forget the sight of that pigeon in the water, flapping madly, trying to catch up the boat and then during the fifteen circuits and passes I made at it how it tried to elude my clutch because it treated me as an enemy grabbing at it instead of a friend. However, it was no good getting into a mood of failure, and I pulled up my mental socks and sailed hard from then on.

  All down the 1,000 miles of American eastern seaboard, Gipsy Moth seemed to go like never before. I suppose, to be matter of fact, I had learned how to handle her with the new rig. It gave me a great thrill. I seemed to know what sails were going to be needed hours ahead, seemed able to trim for much faster sailing, and I got a great sense of achievement from the way she reached out for New York. And this applied to all points of sailing, running, reaching, fetching, and hard on the wind. I could not seem to get her top speed average up above 62⁄3 knots—though I reckon she was doing 10 knots one night, with full sail set, in a Force 6 wind—but her lower speeds all seemed to have increased a lot with the new Illingworth rig.

  What a wonderful sail, that thousand miles along America. Sailing such as we never get in the English Channel, it seemed to me, ghosting at 1¼ knots one night in a sea so smooth that I could see the planet Jupiter reflected in the sea, or doing 7 knots through a surface like a wrinkled mill-pond. One day I cut out 159½ miles, which I think is good going for a 28-foot-waterline boat. That included the night when we did 10 knots. My log says: ‘A mad ride reaching into the dark, with apparently acres of white water from the bows, and waves sliding past. The sea is moderate, except for occasional combers which roll the boat down or slew her bows or stern round.’ Part of that day I was hard on the wind. That sums up the thrill of sailing.

  9. Independence Day

  Francis Chichester’s own narrative ends with his brief summary in the last chapter of what he regarded as his successes on his voyage, and of his failure to achieve his personal ambition to make the crossing in thirty days. But that is not quite the end of the story. Other people were less concerned with what Francis regarded as his ‘failure’, and saw his voyage more clearly as the magnificent achievement it was.

  After crossing the finishing line by the Ambrose Light Vessel, Francis made his way to the us Quarantine Station at Staten Island, and then started his propeller for the first time in thirty-four days. On the way, he passed the Queen Elizabeth, homeward bound. The officer on watch recognized Gipsy Moth III, and the great Queen acknowledged the little sailing boat’s triumph by dipping her colours, and giving her a regal salute of three blasts on her siren. It was a moving gesture.

  As he landed at Staten Island, Francis was handed a telegram from President Kennedy, which said:

  ‘I would like to extend my hearty congratulations to you on your successful new record-breaking crossing of the Atlantic. Your skill and gallantry as a sailor are already well known, but this new achievement will certainly cap your career. And we are particularly pleased that you arrived in the United States on July 4th, the great historic day in US history when we celebrate our independence.’

  The President’s message was but the first of a great shoal of congratulations. H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh, whose own yacht, Bloodhound, was just then being fitted-out, sent this cable:

  ‘Delighted to see that you have achieved your ambition to beat your own record. All members of the Guild [of Air Pilots and Navigators, of which Chichester is a member] and millions of other admirers send their hearty congratulations on a magnificent achievement. Philip.’

  Mr Reginald Bevins, the Postmaster-General, telegraphed to the Editor of the Guardian:

  ‘Please convey my congratulations to Mr Chichester. I am delighted to know that the Post Office was able to contribute to the success of the voyage.’

  Mr H. G. Mason, Lord Mayor of Plymouth, sent this message:

  ‘Delighted at your success. Plymouth sends hearty congratulations.’

  Mr D. P. Furneaux, Managing Director of Marconi Marine, cabled:

  ‘Heartiest congratulations from all at Marconi Marine. Magnificent effort even though not thirty days. Too bad about Pidgy but delighted Kestrel kept so healthy on diminishing diet of volts. Looking forward to your welcome home again.’

  One of the messages which gave Francis most pleasure was sent directly to him over Gipsy Moth’s radiotelephone by the Post Office people who had been keeping radio watch on him throughout his crossing. This said:

  ‘Heartiest congratulations courageous on splendid trip. We are sorry you were not able to accomplish your hoped thirty days’ voyage, but nevertheless it is a magnificent achievement. Well
done. With our best wishes for a safe and pleasant voyage home. From Gray, Woolford, and the ETE staff, myself, and all the WTS staff. Graham Wilson.’

  Mr Wilson, it may be remembered, was the Assistant Inspector of Wireless Telegraphy whom I went to see in the very early days to discuss whether the radiotelephone experiment was worth trying. The whole radio side of the voyage owed much to him, and to the enthusiastic work of his colleagues.

  A particularly moving message came from Sir Geoffrey de Havilland, of the de Havilland aircraft company, after whose original Gipsy Moth Francis’s Gipsy Moth III was called. ‘Friends at Hatfield send warmest congratulations on this latest Atlantic crossing, which revives thoughts of your Tasman adventure and other happy memories,’ he cabled. The Royal Yacht Squadron, the Royal Geographical Society, the Institute of Navigation, the Royal Aeronautical Society, the Royal Ocean Racing Club, the Royal Aero Club and the Guild of Air Pilots and Air Navigators were among those who cabled congratulations. So did much of British industry, including Shell, British Nylon Spinners, John Shaw (wire ropes) and Chloride Batteries, whose products all played a part in bringing Gipsy safely to New York.

  Although Francis would have preferred to make New York on July 1st, it gave a pleasant touch to the end of his voyage that he should get there on July 4th, during the celebration of Independence Day. The New York Herald-Tribune published a photograph of the Queen Elizabeth dipping her colours to Gipsy Moth III, and wrote of Francis Chichester:

  ‘Under sail, unaccompanied, with no crew but a vagabond, hitch-hiker pigeon (which died) he crossed the Atlantic in thirty-three days, bettering his own forty-day record set in 1960. In a week that saw three new nations gain independence while the United States celebrated the anniversary of its own, this intrepid British adventurer proved anew that independence can belong to men as well as to nations.’

  An unofficial reception committee was set up by Mr Laurens Hamilton, a distinguished member of the New York Yacht Club, and a grandson of J. Pierpont Morgan. Mr Hamilton put a splendid 75-foot yacht, Shadow Isle, at the disposal of Sheila Chichester and her friends, and took them out to meet Francis on his way into New York Harbour.

  New York took Francis to its heart, and gave a great welcome to this one-man British invasion on Independence Day. Alistair Cooke, the Guardian’s distinguished New York correspondent, sent a delightful piece about it to the paper. Here it is:

  ‘Independence Day intruder

  From Alistair Cooke

  New York, July 4th.

  ‘Just to show how one thing can lead to another, how relatively responsible men can put two and two together and get 1776, let me recount as baldly as I can some events of Independence Day. The whole confusion seems to have set in because a British fleet, squadron, or whatever, was thought to be hovering off Long Island.

  ‘Did it intend to seize West Point, proclaim a monarchy, and revoke the Declaration of Independence? It was known to be in radio contact with England but either could not or would not respond to shore to ship calls from here.

  ‘Most probably the British had been careful to see that they didn’t have the proper crystals, or mega-whatnots, to allow communication with this coastline. Well, that started it. The United States Coast Guard got busy. (The Navy can run the Coast Guard only in wartime, and there was no proof yet that that’s what this was. In peacetime, the Coast Guard is beholden only to the orders of the Secretary of the Treasury—and let’s not go into that, the story is wild enough already.)

  ‘The Coast Guard sent out patrols last night, but no soap. The Coast Guard station at Staten Island had no word of any incoming invasion and said that “that is up to Operations, anyway tomorrow is a holiday”. Then they managed to “fix” a suspicious-looking object “becalmed off Nantucket”. This was later identified as a cutter with a one-man crew. And that (can you imagine?) is what all the fuss was about. Turned out to be a cheerful-voiced English character name of Chichester. Said he just wanted to sail into New York with no help from anyone but thanks all the same.

  ‘Now, of course, the Coast Guard realized in a flash that its job was to help. But now also the British Embassy and the British Information Services here were manfully getting into the act and before you could say “hold, enough!” they had duty officers manning telephones and stacking up with coffee and sandwiches against the night watch. The helpful calls between Washington, New York, the Third Naval District (they just wanted to be kept informed), and the Coast Guard got so mixed up that at one time the Coast Guard couldn’t say what was the direction of the offshore winds. We offered our services and called a yachting maniac we know who lives in Manchester (Eng.). He said the winds off Long Island were “north to north-east at 10 miles an hour”. We were happy to call up the Coast Guard and set them straight.

  ‘Once the invasion myth was exploded, everyone except the weatherman gave his all to see that this Chichester guy got what was coming to him, namely, a little convoy up the river and genial clearance from Dr Erwin C. Drescher, the chief of the US Quarantine Station here, a happy, benevolent man who took no stock in the invasion story in the first place.

  ‘This morning the Coast Guard was really on the ball. They routed us out of bed to say that “at 0655 hours, the Gipsy Moth was 8½ miles west of Shinnecock Inlet, about 76 miles from Ambrose Light”. Then at eleven this morning he was 1· 4 miles off Moriches Inlet, going at about 3½ knots.

  ‘By now the big question here is why would a man (seems he’s in his sixties) want to do such a thing. Happily, your correspondent was able to get an exclusive on that one. A confidential source gave him a tip and set him going through the airplane manifests at Idlewild. BOAC had a record of an incoming lady with an English accent, a rare enough thing around these parts to cause some comment. After going through hotel registers our man tracked her down to a Park Avenue inn.

  ‘From there the trailled to Flushing Yacht Dock. The dock-master positively remembered “a tall, no-nonsense English lady” going aboard a yacht called the Shadow Isle. A quick riffle through “Lloyd’s Register of American Yachts” identified a 75-foot cruiser: a call to the marine operator and we had her radio call letters. In no time flat the very voice of Mrs Chichester (for it was none other) was on the horn.

  ‘We cornered her at last tied up (the Shadow Isle, of course) at the Quarantine Station on Staten Island. There she said her husband was trying to sail the Atlantic alone the hard way, from east to west, in ten days less than his record time of forty and a half days in 1960. He had had a satisfyingly terrible ordeal then, including a hurricane. Apparently, things had not gone quite so well this time, but it had been uncomfortable enough and he’d enjoyed some spanking Force 8 winds. The yacht seemingly calls for a crew of six, so Chichester is going it alone.

  ‘Anticipating the question which is now ringing around New York harbour (Why? Why? Why would anyone want to do such a thing?”) Mrs Chichester said: “Because he likes it.” There seems to be no sensible retort to that. Turns out that Mrs Chichester is going to sail the Gipsy Moth back, with her 16-year-old son. Some people will never learn.’

  To us on the Guardian, one of the nicest—and most unexpected—things about the adventure was the way in which schoolchildren all over the country followed it. Letters from them poured into the office, wishing him luck (‘I hope you don’t hit a boat when going into New York harbour’) and sympathizing with him on the death of the pigeon. Two days after the end of the voyage, a London schoolmaster sent us an account of how his class had followed the adventure. He wrote:

  ‘When Francis Chichester set off on June 1st, I decided that my class of London nine-year-olds should know all about it. The first couple of days out they listened politely enough as I read from his log, but by then, as he had neither sunk nor got halfway, their interest began to wane. A pity, I thought. If they would only latch on, there would be food for their starved imaginations for a month or more. But the idea of solitude meant nothing to them, and they thought of it only as a rather dul
l story. The quickest way to a child’s heart is through a smaller child or a helpless animal. Thus my saviour was Pidgy.

  ‘Thereafter, my daily progress reports consisted often per cent sailing and ninety per cent pigeon. Things changed at once. Bated breath greeted the appearance of the Guardian on my desk each morning, and the day I forgot to bring it my apologies were howled down in a most disrespectful manner! The gradual progress of the crosses across the blackboard map went almost unnoticed. The news of Pidgy’s sad end broke on a Saturday. By Monday morning, of course, several of the children knew. Those who had not heard were stunned. Our dinner numbers were very late going up that day, and nobody put much heart into their arithmetic. But that bird had done a good job for me. For the first time, I began to notice some sympathy for the lonely man. Now, he was well enough on his way for them to wonder about his chances of a record. The voyage now held interest for them in its own right, and gasps of delight or dismay, as appropriate, now greeted each daily cross. They laughed at the beer can exhaust pipe. They goggled at the whales. They cheered when he arrived. Up to this time, Francis Chichester and I had been doing all the work. I felt it was high time I gave them some. I had some unprecedented response from some members. One, after a sterling three-page effort, put: “The End. Too tud to carry on.” I gave him a star.

  ‘One, looking into the deepest recesses of her memory, recalled: “He was rather late for the starting line. Two Customs came to search because they thought he was a smuggler. He was thumbpin about up on deck.” One almost forgot the bird. There was just an afterthought, underneath the picture. “He called his pigeon Piggy.”‘