Lynda had seen much more of the violence in the townships than I. She had worked as a trainee paramedic for the Red Cross in the casualty department of Livingstone Hospital on Friday and Saturday nights. She had seen stab wounds, burns and disfigurations such as most people never encountered. She wanted medical qualifications and capabilities beyond the basic first aid she might need to be able to perform on the boat. Over an eighteen month period she emerged top of her class with a useful EMA (Emergency Medical Assistant) Paramedics qualification. Unfortunately, she was unable to attend her graduation ceremony in December 1984, as she was taken into hospital that day for an operation. Luckily she recovered sufficiently from this to start the heavy boat work two months later.
Our other training exercises for the boat included some practical follow-up to my yachtmasters courses. From our upstairs veranda in Donkin Street I would use my sextant to ‘shoot the sun’, and subsequently calculate a position line and draw it on the chart. I was somewhat dismayed to find our position to be anything from fifteen miles offshore to fifteen miles inland! This was with an £80 Davis Mark 25 plastic sextant, which I had thought would be our number one sextant to be backed up by a spare – and cheaper – plastic ‘Ebco’. However, my mother kindly gave me a quality metal sextant at this point, so the Davis became my spare. Immediately I achieved much better results.
Our final piece of training was spending every Thursday evening for about a year going to ham radio classes. I passed the Amateur Radio Operator’s exam in the end, but Lynda could not sit it, as the dates conflicted with her paramedics exams. I valued the theoretical knowledge gained, which was pretty complex at times, but unfortunately we never bought an ‘amateur radio’ (a long range short wave transceiver with amateur frequency bands). It was just too expensive and could not be classified as a boat necessity. We went one day to the National Amateur Radio meeting held in a hotel close to our flat. Sitting at the back I noted one fact: seventy-five per cent of the men at the meeting – there were hardly any women – were bald! I decided that when I qualified on this count, I would perhaps indulge in this interesting hobby! For the moment life should revolve around boats and one boat in particular.
Mark and Tandy’s arrival at the airport neatly coincided with Lynda’s birthday. Tony and Paul knew this, and they did something about it, typical of their sense of humour and creativity. We arrived a short time before the plane was due and went to the airport waiting lounge. We moved immediately to the window to look across the runway to where Tin Hau was being built a quarter of a mile away. Imagine our surprise when we saw a huge banner proclaiming: ‘Happy Birthday, Lynda’.
At last, most of the work we still had to do was at the boat itself. Lynda thumped away at her Yankee screwdriver all day long; and, in total, we used 20,000 brass screws on the interior woodwork. We also did well on forty millimetre by seven millimetre stainless steel bolts (about 2,000), which became our standard size after we discovered a treasure trove of these at one of the local scrapyards. How they got there, we never knew. Bakkie load after bakkie load of plywood, timber battening and tongue and groove panelling was transported to the boat. The panelling we used in the forward area was South African pine, which never gave us any problems, but in the aft section of the boat and in the pilothouse we moved on to a superior timber called blackwood, which, besides being extremely hard, has a beautiful and varied grain.
One of Tony and Paul’s first actions was to condemn many of Ronnie’s long seam welds on the plating. Luckily for us, one weld on the hull had already revealed itself as defective when rainwater from the leaking roof of our new hangar had found its way through Ronnie’s so called watertight cement screeding over the ballast and then worked its way out again through an appallingly bad keel weld. I fixed the roof and then spent days in the cramped conditions under the cabin sole epoxying over the ballast. Johnny, employed by Tony and Paul for much of the lengthy welding operations, fixed the defective weld. He then went on to spend two solid weeks grinding out and re-welding to a very high standard any length of weld that looked suspect, using power from a large diesel generator our gang had organised. Fortunately, Ronnie had not gone too far on the seam welding. His work had mostly been on setting up the framework and tacking in place the plating. If he had been allowed to continue in the same way we could have ended up with a leaking boat that would have required much time, expense and effort to put right. Perhaps that would have been the end of our efforts to build Tin Hau. Once again: thank you, Tony, Paul and Johnny for your expertise, generosity and sheer hard work!
The months raced by; the weekly highlight being Sunday lunchtime, when we gathered together our scrap timber in preparation for a South African braai. Tony and Paul would join us once the sizzling meat was ready. Sitting outside in the glorious sunshine, enjoying our Castle lagers and the latest of Lynda’s salads, followed by a delicious sweet, we made the most of our twenty minutes of shared bliss.
By November, the welding work was just about complete. I had been organising the supply and the sandblasting of the remaining quantity of steel needed, and in this had been helped considerably by a local steel fabricating company called Project Services. The manager, Brian Burns, had shown such sympathy towards us, and understanding of what we were up against, that he supplied the final order not just at discount price, but free of charge!
With the steelwork over, Paul and Lenny left us to continue life as before, a job well done. Tony remained a constant visitor, supporter and helper. Something about the whole Tin Hau project had hooked and besotted him. Or was it something else? He saw the generator installed. He arranged for his friend, Eddie,
a man of considerable success in his own field – refrigeration – to help with the freezer installation. And, on 2nd February, Tony assisted on the big day for the Perkins engine. It had been installed over the preceding weeks, and a ‘mock sea’ had been made, using a drum of water outside the boat from which the cooling water was drawn and into which the exhaust returned. All that was required was to turn the key. Would she start after nearly two years in her timber crate?
At eleven o’clock exactly I turned the key one notch to the right and the red light came on. So far so good. Another notch to the right and hold for a few seconds, with bated breath. Third turn and chug, chug, chug – the engine was running. What a moment. I cannot describe the feeling of life that seemed to enter the boat and the pleasure that first throb gave us. We had made a silent vow to Perkins that we would put up their ‘Powered by Perkins Engines’ plaque if the engine started at the first turn of the key. Well, it did, and the plaque was fastened to the console just below the instrument panel. We had the engine on and off several times that day, at first idling, then running the propeller in forward and in reverse. After all the excitement, we sat down with our supportive friends and had a few glasses of bubbly.
Work in anticipation of the launch now reached a frenzy. I finished off the installation of the twenty-seven round portholes and the fourteen pilothouse windows (six millimetre and ten millimetre armour plate safety glass, respectively), having devised my own test for the glass panes. On their collection at the suppliers, I had climbed a four metre ladder and dropped a few of them on to the floor, somewhat to the surprise of the other customers! There was a loud crash, but nothing broke and I was satisfied.
We started gathering together and loading on board all sorts of equipment: the Abavi rubber inflatable dinghy, the second dinghy to Knot Often; my windsurfer, a present from Lynda in Swaziland; crockery, cutlery, pots, pans, linen, bedding and cushions; engine spares and other spares; tools; the Walker log; the lead line and the echo sounder; the radar, VHF, radio direction-finder and compasses; the liferaft, lifejackets, harnesses, wet weather gear, flares, EPIRB, fire extinguishers and an extensive medical kit; a carefully filled ‘panic bag’, ready for that day should we ever find ourselves cast adrift in mid-ocean; our tape recorder and lifelong collection of cassettes; mooring lines, towing warps, anchors and chain;
catalogues, manuals, licences and other papers; sewing machine, typewriter, camera, binoculars, accordion and guitar. The list goes on...
Inside, everything was taking shape. Lynda was completing all the curtaining, blinds and upholstery. Spare wall space started sprouting some of her weavings. Cupboards and lockers were filled. Endless drawings were made showing stowage positions. It really was extremely fulfilling seeing everything coming together so
beautifully. Regrettably, however, we had no time to sit back and savour what was being achieved – to quote Lynda’s newsletter: ‘Poor David, at this stage, was hopping about the boat like a rabbit in a warren from one tunnel to the next, his presence required by anyone and everyone, usually at the same time...’ We just had time to be aware that we were probably in the middle of the most exciting and productive phase of our lives so far, with promise of more to come.
On 15th February I decided that the launch might be only three weeks away; and since it would probably take three weeks to organise, we should start considering the subject as a matter of urgency. Another Munchie Moolman job, I thought, knowing his capabilities and contacts. So I went on hands and knees to him once again and asked him how we should set about transporting twenty-five tons of steel junk twenty kilometres to the harbour, keeping costs to a minimum. ‘No Problem,’ he replied; and when the day of the launch arrived he proved his attitude to the world at large by standing prominently at the head of the convoy through town wearing a tee shirt with the words ‘NO PROBLEM’, clearly displayed.
Munchie organised the cranes and the low-bed, and we liaised with the police and contacted the traffic, electricity and telephone authorities (lines had to be temporarily lifted along the route). We met the harbour master, Captain Ted Page, and found out where we could berth. A launch date was set – 10th March, and we arranged that as the first phase in the procedure Tin Hau would be jacked up on her cradle once again and rolled out of the hangar to a point where the cranes could reach her. This was set for 22nd February.
All went as planned on the day, and we moved out of our flat and on board Tin Hau for the first time. I remarked to Lynda that this would probably be one of the calmest and most trouble free ‘anchorages’ ever. Although Tin Hau was now extremely visible from the airport buildings across the runway, we were not disturbed by sightseers. The route to the hangars was too rambling and remote for most people. Neither was the plane traffic beside us a nuisance. In fact we never stopped taking childlike pleasure at each of the landings and take-offs. By evening most of the manmade noises ceased and we only had the crickets from the nearby scrub to contend with. The stars were really bright and the nights warm.
The space left behind in the hangar was immediately put to good use. After a thorough spring-clean, I laid out the three masts on trestles and set about the job of rigging them and fixing the lights. In the meantime, Lynda started a small factory, printing tee shirts. Her father had organised one hundred and fifty blue tee shirts through his contacts in the clothing business, and Lynda had made a silk screen stencil showing a picture of our boat with the words ‘TIN HAU’ in English
and Chinese. She printed all the tee shirts at an incredible speed and hung them up to dry on the masts, the visual impact being like that of a Chinese laundry.
On the boat we applied the final coat of antifoul paint and bolted on the zinc anodes, eight four kilogram anodes on the hull, two 2kg anodes on the rudder and a single anode on the propshaft. These were our protection against galvanic corrosion, recommended and supplied by Duff Anodes of my home town, Chichester. The cradle was bound to the boat by webbing, as the plan was to use the cranes to lift the boat itself, not the cradle – which would simply hang below. I had put my head well and truly ‘on the block’ by deciding to cut four holes in the bulwark frames, two on each side, to which the crane strops would be shackled. Normally, long broad slings are placed under a boat when it is lifted by a crane or cranes, but I saw no reason for this in our case. The slings would have had to have been specially made, and so they would have been very expensive. Also I did not relish the idea of the hull’s paintwork being rubbed. I calculated that the four ‘strong points’ on the bulwarks could take a load in excess of ten tons each, and assured everyone that if they failed to do so it was entirely my responsibility.
The last task was to lift the three masts on to Tin Hau’s side deck. With this done, we were ready! We settled down to sleep on 9th March, keenly anticipating the following day.
12. The Launch: 10th March, 1986
The day started cool and cloudy, We were up bright and early and had barely breakfasted when we heard the drone of a heavy engine approaching. Loadstar, as usual, arriving before the scheduled time. Following close on their heels came the press, the telephone and electricity authorities, officials from the airport across the way, and one of the two thirty ton cranes. The second crane arrived a bit later.
Loading took almost two hours. The somewhat treacherous route we were planning covered a number of nasty hills and bends. As an additional precaution, therefore, to stop Tin Hau sliding free, Tony tack-welded the steel cradle to the low-bed platform. Our traffic escort checked the permits and the routes once again. Many stories were told of previous boats hitting bridges, high voltage electricity cables and overhanging buildings or trees. But the go-ahead was given. The convoy started moving towards the harbour. Two police officers led on their motorcycles, followed by the low-loader carrying the boat, myself in our faithful Isuzu bakkie, Tony in his Beetle, a police patrol car, and then a long line of vans and cars that grew in length as the journey proceeded.
We moved slowly through town past the residential area of Southdene, left on to Walmer Road, down the steep Upper Valley Road, sharp left into Lower Valley Road at Plate Glass Building– where my old employers, HKS, were situated (on seeing Tin Hau going past, nearly everyone at HKS stopped working to take the afternoon off and follow the excitement). We then proceeded up the steep hill to St George’s Park (where cricket test matches were played in earlier years) and right into Rink Street then left into the busy Cape Road at the Horse Memorial, right into Mount Road and down towards North End, one of Port Elizabeth’s oldest light manufacturing and commercial districts, into Main Street and thus to the docks, crossing the railway lines on one of the many hideous flyover bridges constructed in the name of progress when the docks were separated from the city by a modern elevated ‘freeway’.
Lynda was waiting for us at the dock gates with the news that plans had been changed on where we should launch and berth. For reasons unknown, we had been redirected to a different part of the harbour. This presented no problem other than that someone (Lynda) had to wait at the original berth to inform friends and family of the new location.
At two o’clock the fun started. The cranes were ready to act, and the low-bed was in position right on the edge of the quay wall. I climbed on board along with Tony. Jacqui and Lynda stood by with pots of paint and brushes waiting to touch up any areas where antifoul had been rubbed off during the move. The operation began with the slow taking up of slack in the lifting cables. Boat and cradle were then gently hoisted clear of the low-bed which drove off, its work complete. The cradle was lowered to the ground and all the webbing ties holding it to the boat were undone. Tin Hau was lifted in the air again, this time with all her underwater profile visible to the crowd. Lynda and Jacqui rushed in to do their bit and I came down to bolt on the two remaining zinc anodes. The motors whirred as the two crane drivers commenced the delicate business of edging Tin Hau outwards over the water. Unexpectedly, with just two metres to go, they stopped. The load was too much. Tin Hau went back into her cradle, which had been manoeuvred sideways, until it was overhanging the quay wall by almost half of its width. With Tin Hau supported in her cradle the cranes were able to reposition themselves as close to the water as possible. Again Tin Hau was lifted. This time the cradle was dragged along the quay well clear of the launch site. Tin Hau was edged outwards and seawards onc
e more, and lowered towards the sea. But still there were problems. The out-riggers of one of the cranes threatened to lift. All we needed was one dropped boat and two overturned cranes! Some rapid rethinking was necessary. Munchie and the boys rose to the occasion. A third, lighter crane was ordered, and the crowd resigned itself to yet more waiting in this real-life drama, their spirits not dampened in the least by the drizzle which had just turned to rain.
The third crane arrived and was set up to lean its weight on the offending out-riggers. Up went Tin Hau for the fourth time, and out towards the water. With only half a metre to go all three crane drivers became jittery, but this time Tony and I on board could do something. We removed all the fenders. Moreover, the crowd could help; they pushed on the side of Tin Hau to gain those few inches so she was clear of the quay wall. This was just enough for the crane drivers, who gratefully lowered their load slowly towards the water. I anxiously waited to discover two things. At what level would she float in the water? And would she leak?
As the water touched the keel and then the broader expanse of the hull for the first time, I marvelled at the way in which an inanimate land object could suddenly be transformed into a fabulous creature of the sea. I raced backwards and forwards below decks, checking all the sea-cocks and pipes for leaks, but everything was fine. The bilges were dry.
Back on deck, I watched the sea surface draw closer to the top level of the antifoul paint, which I had purposefully painted high, five inches above the theoretical design waterline. I was relieved to see the bow come afloat with four inches of antifoul paint showing. But the water at the stern covered the line by an inch, which made us, on average, three and a half inches deeper in the water than we should have been, equivalent to three and a half tons in weight. Allowing for two and a half tons of diesel, water, spares and possessions, this made us one ton, or four per cent, overweight. Not too bad, but I was not at all happy about being down in the stern and I prayed that later we would be able to do something about it.
Cutting the Dragon's Tail Page 8