Gipsy Moth Circles the World

by Francis Chichester

  “16.45. What’s wrong with me today? I was in the middle of lunch when Gipsy Moth went aback. I went out in the long oilskin coat and wore her round on to course again. Trousers and cabin boots pretty wet in heavy rain. Then blowing up and already 30 knots, so I dropped the genoa staysail. Then the boat would not go with only a jib and mizzen, so I dress up and set the storm staysail. Now the wind has dropped to near calm, and Gipsy Moth is hobbyhorsing, doing half a knot. She wants all that sail back, of course. However, I’ll have another go at finishing my lunch first. I think we are in the eye of a tiny local depression.

  “17.20. After a calm Gipsy Moth is now sailing herself—with the self-steering disconnected—on a heading of due west, at 3 knots. Can you beat it? However, I have finished my spaghetti, and will into the fray yet again.

  “18.45. This day, or the weather, is playing tricks on me. Just now I hoisted the genny stays’l again in place of the storm stays’l. I was expecting another fresh of wind like this afternoon, but instead, the wind suddenly backed from east to north-west. The boat seemed stuck so I hoisted the main, too. While I was doing so the wind veered 40 ° before I got back to the cockpit, so now we are sailing beam-on to a north wind (roughly speaking). I seem to have been mucking about with sails all day, and got nowhere at all. Fog and drizzle. Visibility 500 yards. I feel like another drink now, but nothing brings on a shemozzle more surely than my enjoying a drink, and I have had a bellyful of dashing out into the wet for emergencies today. Oh, well, what drink shall I have?”

  The one big want I had then was a quiet night and a good sleep, so I turned in at 8 p.m. and was soon asleep. But the brandy hot must have done it—I was woken up at 9 p.m. by a gale squall, and had to reduce sail quickly. So I dressed again and took care over the oilies, because it was raining heavily—the deck was running rain like a stream. I had quite a job. First, I dropped the mainsail, then the mizzen, then the working jib. After that I hoisted the spitfire and left it with the genny staysail. Then I turned in again to try for some more sleep, but judging by the wave which then hit the boat with a roar of wind in advance of it I thought I was in for a noisy night.

  “March 7, 03.35. I am debating whether to drop the genny stays’l and/ or turn downwind. We are not going very fast at 5.4 knots. It is the waves striking from abeam which concern me, but surely they should not be knock-down size yet?

  “07.25. I was out in my judgement; the wind has dropped from 35 to 25 knots; now we need more sail up, and would have been poorly placed if I had dropped the genny staysail at 03.30. The barometer is still dropping steadily at 3/ 8 millibar per hour—there is big wind about, I guess. What to hoist? I had a good sleep last time but need more so will hoist the trysail and not the main.

  “08.30. I housed the main boom in its crutch and hoisted the trysail. No difficulty except for ropes and wires catching up in things (as usual). The trysail is just the right sail. Gipsy Moth seemed to spring to life. She seems to me to be doing considerably more than recorded, I would say 6¾ k. against 5¼ k. on the dial. A sudden thought, I tried the batteries of the Harris, and they are nearly flat. Therefore the speedometer would be under-reading, though I believe the correct mileage is still registered. No fix for three days; just one sun position line yesterday. If I had been a bit quicker off the mark I could have shot the sun again and got a fix, but by the time I got my gear to the cockpit, the sun was back behind the overcast. I have set a reefed mizzen, which improved the speed and enabled me to improve the heading. I don’t want to gallop off south-east for the Horn yet.

  “15.00. Hurrah, the sun is out! How bright the future seems for a moment! The fog we have emerged from looks like a great bank of white smoke drifting from a fire along the west horizon. I changed the spitfire to the working jib. This is a delightful point of sailing, with the wind on the quarter, but not so fast as with a beam wind.

  “19.20. After three days without a fix the error in my estimated position was 21½ miles too far north.

  “22.20. Dropped both the mizzen and the working jib. When the wind lulls, we are under-canvassed. But I think the only thing to do with this boat is to shorten sail as soon as there is a squall. It means turbulent air, which is likely to continue and perhaps get worse. In this case there was a sudden shift of wind of 40 ° and there were big waves, I think three, with the first of the new wind. The first hurled the boat well over 65° I would say, and she stayed there so long I wondered if for some reason she could not get up—long enough for me to wait for her to come upright and then, when she stayed down, long enough for me to struggle out of my swinging chair and start for the cockpit to see what was happening. I will now have another shot at finishing my minestrone soup. I dumped the remainder in a vacuum flask.

  “March 8. Gybed at about 04.15. Daybreak about 04.30. Sea more kindly on this gybe, and nearly astern, whereas before it was often nearly abeam. (Later) I was woken up at about 7 o’clock by some big rollings, or rather hurlings, in waves which were near to being dangerous. Most reluctantly I got up and dressed to see if there was anything I should do. But that lot of bad waves seemed to be in a patch, and since I got up we have been in the usual Southern Ocean rough sea that goes with a 35-knot wind. There seems to be a succession of rain squalls, each building up a few big dirty seas. The speed of the boat varies from 4 to 8 knots, and sometimes it is so quiet in the cabin that I look up to see if we have stopped. I seized the opportunity of the sun’s coming out bright for a while to get a sun observation. I took 6 shots, but do not feel sure of them because there are big waves only giving occasional glimpses of the distant horizon for perhaps a second or two, which entails snap shooting. I will plot the shots on graph paper which shows pretty clearly how much they are likely to be in error; also shows clearly any ‘rogue’shots. Ate my last apple last night and found the first bad grapefruit. I fear the eggs are not going to keep. My beloved wind tell-tale (a thin ribbon of light chiffon) which streams in the wind from the bottom of a monometal rod dangling from the wind vane has carried away. This is a loss because I look at this tell-tale many times in a day. I can look at it from the cabin without having to go into the cockpit and it not only gives me the strength and direction of the wind near the sea surface, but also, if it is not streaming in the same direction as the wind vane itself, it indicates how much load there is on the self-steering gear.

  “21.30. I felt it was useless turning in early, and thought of leaving all my clothes on. Sure enough, a fresh of wind, 30 knots, with some fairly hefty waves. Too much for Gipsy Moth with that sail area. She heels over to 35°, and when a big breaker strikes abeam, it bashes her too far over. One big wave came along while I was in the cockpit, and I noticed that the wind definitely roared and speeded up before the wave arrived. It must be the displacement of air by the mass of water. I’ll be the death of a can of soup and then for some sleep (I hope!).”

  In changing winds I had to get my sleep in snatches. I had an off-course alarm, which four apprentices at the Kelvin Hughes works rigged up for me. It made a hideous noise above my bunk if the wind changed 45°. The previous night, for instance, it had me jump out of my sleep three times, and each time I had to dress in oilskins and change sail or retrim. The pitch dark night and the grey dawn with misty drizzle reminded me of the North Atlantic.

  “March 9, 11.40. Interrupted breakfast to reduce sail, because the lee deck was too often under water, rushing water, indeed, and there was unnecessary strain on the boat. So dropped genny stays’l and jib and hoisted spitfire in place, leaving only trysail and spitfire set. Bright sunny day but strong breeze up to 40 k and some fierce waves. I turned 20 ° downwind, which eased things a lot.

  “12.45. Still eating breakfast, which I last interrupted to get a noon sun observation. Maybe it was a good thing I did so, because the sky is totally overcast now a few minutes later.

  “Day’s run 179 miles. This is my 40th day at sea. I have sailed 5,083 miles and have 1,604 to go to the Horn. For the past 6 days I have been headed direct
for the Horn and am now at latitude 47 ° 08’ S which is 311 miles nearer the South Pole. I put on my winter woollies this morning: wool shirt, long underfugs and thick socks, but it has turned out warm in the sun and with oilies keeping all air out I was parboiled on the foredeck. I shall need a pint of sea water tonight to keep the cramps away.

  “March 10, 05.00. I cannot recall Gipsy Moth ever sailing so well, so quietly and smoothly, nearly upright, and with a good average speed of 7’4 k for 8 hours (which is as much as she will do in comfort). Further, I have not been in the cockpit during this period. Long may it last! (Later) I got a sun sight at about 08.15, but it was difficult with grey cloud scudding over the sun, big waves hiding the horizon and spray on the sextant and my spectacles. It took me 17 minutes to get six shots. I plotted them on graph paper afterwards, because they seemed so uncertain, but the biggest difference of any from a guessed line of average was only 4’ (the equivalent of 4 miles).

  “14.12. Motor trouble. It had become increasingly hard to start the motor. Today after about 12 attempts the motor fired, but did not pick up. Finally it laboured on at 400 revs. It took 14 minutes at full throttle before these revs increased. It sounds like fuel pump trouble. I must study the handbook, but feel that engineering will be difficult in these seas now the wind has started howling again.

  “15.30. When the wind begins to howl in these seas, and the anemometer reads up to 40 knots, it is time to shorten sail and prepare for a blow. I interrupted the lunch I had started and dropped the trysail.”

  I was getting used to the wild wind systems of the Southern Ocean. I could forecast with fair accuracy what the wind was going to do next. For example, on March 11 a log entry reads:

  “I have gambled on the wind continuing to veer. I trimmed the sails and the self-steering gear to head 36° to the north of the heading for Cape Horn. I then turned in and had a remarkable sleep till 7 a. m. without having to stir from my bunk. My hunch paid off handsomely and the boat is now headed within 100 of the direction of the Horn after averaging 7.1 knots all night.”

  When I worked out my position on March 10 I found that I was 175 miles short of the spot where Brigadier Miles Smeeton, his wife Beryl and John Guzzwell somersaulted in Tzu Hang on February 14, 1957. It is interesting to note that this is still some 1,200 miles short of Cape Horn itself; all this Southern Ocean is formidable, not just near the Horn. If you look at a globe, you will see why these seas are like no other ocean anywhere: there is no land to break their force as they sweep endlessly round and round the spinning globe. That makes for tremendous swell, even on a calm day. There is nothing to break the force of the wind, either.

  The extracts from my log give a fair idea of daily life on Gipsy Moth IV, endless jobs to be done to keep her sailing at her best, endless action to forestall the hazards of wind and sea, to help the yacht in her struggle across this formidable, lonely ocean. I had luck sometimes; I felt that Providence was on my side over that motor. Thinking over what might be causing trouble, I concluded that air must have got into the fuel system when I used the motor for charging my batteries with the boat bouncing about in a rough sea. I decided that I should have to bleed the whole fuel system to get rid of any air lock—and this meant that I should have to get at the fuel pump, priming pump, filter, etc. Here Providence stepped in, to give me an unexpectedly calm day. Even so, it was a long job. I found that the priming pump was on the inaccessible side of the motor, visible only in a mirror after crawling from beside my bunk, behind the motor, and under the cockpit. There, lying on my side, I could feel the priming pump, but could see it only by using a mirror. It was claustrophobic work, with my head lower than my feet. I worked at it for a whole morning, and eventually had the satisfaction of seeing fuel oil squirt out of the pipes that feed the atomizers. Then I knew that the fuel system was working properly—but still the motor wouldn’t run well. Suddenly I realised that now there could only be one cause of the trouble, that the throttle was not working. The throttle, or cut-off, which stops the motor should open automatically, but it was jamming closed. Through sea-water corrosion, the spring which should open it could not do so. As soon as I opened the cut-off by hand, the motor started like a bird whirring off. I worked on to take advantage of the calm conditions, and had nothing to eat that day until the afternoon, but then I had the great satisfaction of having located the trouble and fixed it—a most excellent appetiser. I took further advantage of that same calm to bake some more bread, which I had thought I might not be able to do until well past the Horn. Although it was a remarkably calm day, Gipsy Moth averaged 7 7/8 knots for 3 hours to 5 p.m.

  I had a charming, unexpected visitor on my way to the Horn. I was on the side deck with the inspection lamp one night when something soft and warm, not cold like ropes and gear are, fluttered in my face, startling me. It was a Mother Carey’s Chick, dazzled by the light. I picked it up and put it in a safe place in the cockpit, and after I had finished my job I put it on the after deck, from which it could hop into the air or sea as it might like best when I put the lights out. A Mother Carey’s Chick is the most wild creature I know, yet it is both soft and delicate, and with most charming manners. It will not attack, and stays cosy and warm in one’s hand. It is so small that one’s hand easily closes round it.

  I was sad next morning to find the Mother Carey’s Chick in the cockpit again, dead. It must have got back into the cockpit from the after deck after I had turned in. I fear that it had been injured in some way, and hoped that it had not got under my foot at any time. I don’t think it had been hurt by me—I feel sure that I should have known about it if I had trodden on, or struck, it.

  With Cape Horn seas in mind, I took the precaution of fitting wooden strongbacks to the forehatch. Alan Payne had made them up for me in Sydney—I reckon he felt as I did, that a big heavy hatch with light fastenings was a potential danger in trouble.

  On Monday, March 13, I had a big day’s run. This time it was between good positive sun fixes at each end of the run. Unfortunately I made it a short day of twenty-three hours, that is, I advanced the clocks an hour to compensate for running down the easting through 15° of longitude. The run came out at 191½ miles for the twenty-three hours. This was an average speed of 8-326 knots, and at this speed the day’s run of twenty-four hours would have amounted to 199.826 miles. So that even if I had not made it a short day I would still have been nearly one fifth of a mile short of the 200 miles I was always hoping for. That elusive 200 miles!

  I was now left with 937 miles to the Horn. Five more days like that last one would do the trick! I was excited.

  The note in the wind, a fierce driving noise, foretold a dirty night, and I had to face a north-east gale blowing up to 45 knots. At 03.00 I logged that I had had “a fairly serious beam sea just now.” I could expect no relief from the bashing that the boat was getting, unless I turned and ran south. I reckoned that I could run for about 150 miles south before reaching the iceberg area. The wind had shifted, veering 30 ° during the past fifteen hours. If it shifted a further 30 ° in the next fifteen hours I could, in an emergency, if driven too far south, gybe and head away from the ice area, even if it meant sailing away from the Horn. In other words, I could avoid driving into a trap. Having worked this out, I dropped the staysail and turned downwind running off to the south.

  “It seems as quiet as in a meadow by comparison,” I logged, “unfortunately the heading is now 5° west of south but I hope it won’t be for long. I had one souser in the cockpit, but my excellent deckwear which I had bought in Sydney kept me dry. I remembered in time to drop my arm: I have got a bad habit of holding on to the mizzen mast with one hand at the level of my head, and of course a sea hitting me in this position just runs straight down my arm there. It’s an ill wind … etc—the wet oilskins and the water that comes through the hatch give the cabin floor a good swill and a clean which it might not otherwise get.”

  I did not have to run south for long; at 08.00 the sea and wind both abated, an
d I was able to point 60° off downwind. It was still raining, and the visibility was poor. Everything below was either dripping or running wet. I was still pointing too far south, but I could keep going for another thirty hours at that gait before reaching my southern limit. My hands were nearly numb, and I had a rum hot with lemon.

  At 17.00 that afternoon I hoisted the mainsail. I counted up that I had hoisted or dropped twelve sails in the past twenty-four hours. It already seemed ages ago that I had been worrying about being carried among the icebergs due to being forced to run before the seas, though, in fact, it was only fourteen hours before. By midnight that night I was becalmed and in a thick fog, thick enough to see it drifting in the cockpit. The latitude was now 54 ° S and the distance from the Horn 750 miles. It seemed an odd place to be short of wind!

  I was restlessly impatient, hoping to be able to get past the Horn without a storm, hoping that the fair weather system I was in on March 15 with only 700 miles to go would last out. I took every possible advantage of it, securing everything I could think of, doing everything I could on deck. It seemed too good to be true. As things turned out, it was.

  On Thursday, March 16, I at last got a fix, the first for 3 days and 390 miles of sailing.

  “I was like a duck with two tails,” I logged, “when I found the error of my surmised position was only three miles out in distance and two and a half miles out in direction. I only hope I can get as good a result if I get stuck in Drake’s Passage for three days without a sight, but of course the currents are fierce there.”

  That evening I got through to Buenos Aires on the radiotelephone at last. Robert Lindley, the Sunday Times correspondent, took my dispatch. The British Antarctic Survey in the Falklands was also picking up my radio, so Robert told me, but I was unable to contact them. I logged: