Having said all this, we did make a few half-hearted efforts to obtain comprehensive boat insurance while in South Africa, but abandoned these when we realised that the annual premiums were probably going to amount to more than all our other annual living costs put together. Furthermore, one of our boat-building friends, also an insurance broker, advised strongly against it. When we asked him whether he insured his boat, he said, ‘Yes, but on a post-dated basis.’ He never had to pay any premiums in advance, but if an accident occurred he could still make a full claim as long as he paid some of the premium in arrears. We wondered how often this sort of thing happened in the world of insurance.
Three years later in the Mediterranean we learnt of a German company, Pantaenius, who for only £60 per annum would cover us against the risk that had always worried me the most– that of colliding with or damaging someone else’s boat or causing personal injury to a third party. Apparently there were no unacceptable conditions attached. So in the end we did acquire some – limited – form of insurance.
14. The Trials
It would take too long to describe in detail all that was going on during this crucial period of our trials. I suspect the reader would rather not hear about the problems of our leaking water tank lids, or our efforts to sort out the dinghy davits, or my further escapades in the bilges or at the top of the masts. Painting jobs never seemed to end. Nor did the stowage and provisioning activities.
Yet by Monday, 31st March, we were in a position to go outside the harbour for the first time and try out the sails. Lynda, Jax and I cast off early in the morning in very little wind. We motored clear of the harbour entrance and hoisted all three sails, waiting to see what would happen. Everything went quiet as the engine was turned off and we revelled in the peace and tranquillity of the open sea. For the moment, Port Elizabeth was behind us. What would happen with the sails? I secured the sheets and waited hopefully. Slowly Tin Hau picked up momentum, but in the wrong direction – Backwards! This was wonderful. I had no idea that we had built a boat that would sail in reverse. We decided to leave things as they were for the moment, lash the wheel and have some breakfast. As we enjoyed our cereal, Cape seed loaf and coffee, Tin Hau continued her sternwards drift, also quite happy.
Once the washing up was done, however, I thought it was time to try some more conventional sailing. I asked Jax and Lynda to ‘back’ the foresail by pushing on the lower battens and the boom until they were well outboard. I sheeted in the mizzen fairly tight, and, sure enough, Tin Hau started on a slow turn away from the wind. Once we had turned about forty-five degrees, I instructed Jax and Lynda to let go the foresail and re-set it correctly. I adjusted the main and mizzen, and forwards we went. Gracefully, serenely, majestically.
For a couple of hours we enjoyed ourselves, tacking or gybing on the turn. Finally the moment came to return to the hustle and bustle of the harbour. What a pity! Still, we knew there was more to come; and Tin Hau’s first sail – if it could be called that, in such little wind – was a success.
Later that day Jan and Jeff arrived from Swaziland to move aboard. With them, and staying for just one night, were Jan’s wife, Kim, and daughter, Marika. They all looked remarkably fresh after their thousand-mile drive. We caught up on the latest news and gossip from Swaziland before immersing ourselves once again in engine exhaust valves, bilge pumps (there was a slight leak around one pump), and radio aerials.
Over the next two days we had two further gentle sails and I decided it was time for the next major landmark in equipment testing. We would try out our anchors. With this in mind we set out during the afternoon of Thursday, 3rd April, despite hearing that some of the worst storms and highest seas on record were occurring two hundred to four hundred miles to the west of us. However, there was still little wind in Port Elizabeth, and the time available for our trials was becoming increasingly short. We headed out towards the harbour entrance, where, admittedly, the swells did look big. I knew we were in for some fun, but I felt we could continue. It would be better clear of the entrance.
That proved to be a slight error in judgement. I think it took only the third incredibly steep climb up onto a crest followed by an even sharper fall into a trough for me to decide to head back. I warned the others that I would be turning to port. Lynda checked the stowage below. We had no sails up to steady us and so I anticipated a heavy roll. I picked my moment, and rotated the wheel, hoping we could make it through one hundred and eighty degrees on one crest. However, it was not to be, as something totally unexpected happened. One third of the way into the turn the wheel came off in my hands!
My heart nearly stopped, but luckily my reactions were reasonably quick. I managed to push the wheel back on to the shaft, matching the square key to its keyway, just before the shaft had a chance to spin; by continuing to apply forward pressure on the wheel, I still had control. I turned rapidly to starboard back to our original course and the crisis was averted as we descended sharply into the next trough. I maintained my pressure on the wheel, judged the following crest, and completed a safe about-turn to port, heeling to a maximum of only thirty degrees. Back in the harbour I breathed a sigh of relief. The loss of our steering at a narrow harbour entrance between two breakwaters in such big swells could have led to the loss of the boat!
Accidents never happen singly. We should have remembered that– not that such a thought would have prevented our next problem. I had decided that in view of our close shave, the day’s ‘trials’ were over. We would return to our berth, especially as the wind had just changed sharply to the south west and increased in strength. However, once more my plans were thwarted. This time, during a mock approach to the berth (it was not an easy berth to come alongside), the engine controls failed abruptly and I could not engage reverse gear. There was only one way to stop. I ran forwards to the anchors, unlashed one and dropped it, all in the space of fifteen seconds. It held and, luckily for us, brought Tin Hau to a standstill just before the approaching mudbank. Our planned day of ‘anchor practice’ had turned into the real thing. The anchor had proved satisfactory.
We spent a few minutes looking at the gear cable in the engine room, carried out what we thought was a temporary repair, and pulled up the anchor, setting off towards the quay wall once more. However, yet again everything went wrong (a passing thought went through my head – one of the alternative names suggested for Tin Hau had been Wot Went Wong). I could not engage reverse. This time our heading and position was slightly different. I had no choice but to drift towards the quay, berthing in a spot fifty metres from our normal one. Thanks to the crew’s good use of fenders, tyres and their arms, this operation went without any trouble, and we warped our way along the quay wall back ‘home’.
The following day we found that the cause of the steering failure was one tiny grub screw, supplied with the wheel, which had come undone in spite of my having drilled a matching hole for it in the shaft and having personally tightened it up hard with an Allen key. My mistake had been not to allow for vibration. I should have applied Loctite or a similar compound to the screw’s thread to stop it working loose. The weakest steering link that I had wondered about at the time of installation had been discovered!
The reason for the engine control failure was similar. In this instance it was a screw on the gear cable at the engine that had vibrated free. Loctite was again applied in liberal quantities; a new bracket was made and the problem solved. I went all over the boat applying Loctite, having just discovered its existence and what it was for. I consoled myself with the thought that this was what ‘trials’ were all about, and at least we had been lucky so far in avoiding any serious harm.
Work carried on over the next few weeks as we sorted out Tin Hau’s teething problems and learnt how to handle and sail her. Unfortunately all the batteries (weighing about twenty-five kilograms each) had to be taken out and returned to Willards, since unexplained signs of acid were appearing in the battery tray. Willards discovered that the casing of one batte
ry was cracked and they gave us a replacement free of charge. Other electrical problems were sorted out by another of those wonderful helpers that seemed to materialise out of thin air, Dickie Henderson. Yet more volunteers checked over the freezer and the engine. A scuba diver, Gert, examined the hull underwater and reported that everything looked fine, except for some sharks that were paying an unexpected visit to our length of quay wall. Meanwhile, Munchie Moolman continued with his generosity by bringing us a ten kilogram yellowtail he had caught the previous night.
The Herald kept Tin Hau in the news with a huge front page photograph of her under full sail off Port Elizabeth. Sue and Debbie Ryan came round one breakfast to interview Jacqui for a special feature article.
I had decided by now that we were too late to head for Cape Town and the Atlantic. Our destination would be Mauritius, and specifically a particular bay in Mauritius that sounded idyllic, Grande Baie. We learnt more of the waters we would be crossing when we met a Canadian yachtsman by the name of Brock who had just arrived from Mauritius, sailing on his own. He had taken an incredible 107 days, having been blown all over the place by headwind gales. At one point he was in polar regions among icebergs. His boat, Asylum, was in tatters, but his spirit was undaunted.
On Sunday, 13th April, the time had come for our first overnight sail, and since I wanted to be free to try out some astral navigation and not be too burdened down by other duties, I was glad to take on John Walker as acting skipper for the trip. The plan was to sail due south from Port Elizabeth, see what the waves were like in the Agulhas current and turn round after twelve hours or so. We left at midday in a force four to six easterly and encountered almost immediately a nasty short chop of a sea with waves about six feet in height. Thus began what we remember now with sheer horror as ‘That Sunday’, our most miserable experience on Tin Hau. My stomach turns just thinking about it.
The wind freshened considerably and wave heights increased as we continued southwards out of sight of land. With all sails fully set (with hindsight we were absolute fools not to have reefed), we raced along at seven knots. The lee deck was regularly awash and to me it seemed we were totally out of control, but John Walker, the skipper, was unworried. I experienced for the first (and almost the last) time the sensation of seasickness, and felt indescribably ill and light-headed. Jan, Jeff and Jacqui were in a huddle on the dry port quarter, throwing up a week’s worth of good food into the sea below. John stood at the wheel, legs securely braced for each wave, looking calm and confident as every ship’s master should be. Lynda proved her toughness by remaining in full control of her senses and not showing any inclination towards seasickness.
Just before dark, Jeff and I managed to communicate to each other that perhaps it would be wise to turn back now, not at midnight as originally planned. We spoke to John and he agreed with the idea. ‘We will gybe,’ he said. Jeff and I muttered something about ‘wouldn’t tacking be safer?’ as we remembered all those capsizes we had suffered during gybes on his Fireball dinghy. But we were in no state to argue.
The wheel was turned to starboard. The foresail came across and then crash! – the main swung over, followed by the mizzen. But what was happening? The mainsail had fallen down and was lying in a most precarious position. Total chaos ensued as we rolled heavily and lost steerage way. No one had time to pull in the log line which we were towing, and on turning on the engine to regain control, the line caught the propeller.
‘Cut the log line,’ I ordered. ‘Drop the foresail. Reef the mizzen. Secure the main – what has broken? Close the pilothouse door,’ I couldn’t get the words out fast enough.
We all forgot our seasickness and sprang into action. Thankfully, after a few minutes Tin Hau was under control again and we were heading back home. Would the engine and a reefed mizzen give us enough power to clear Cape Recife, the headland that protected Port Elizabeth? How far had we been set to the west by the mighty Agulhas current and the easterly wind?
Darkness fell and we could look for the lighthouse at Cape Recife. At last it was spotted just to starboard. We had to win all the ground we could to the east. The engine was revved as it had never been revved before, and slowly we managed a few extra degrees to starboard. As long as we kept the lighthouse just on the port bow we would be all right and able to get home on one tack. By now the crew were wet and cold and being sick once more. John and Lynda remained steady and strong. I really felt for the poor engine, wondering exactly how much line was still round the propshaft, and I tried to work out why, apparently, the main halyard had broken.
By midnight it was clear we would reach Port Elizabeth and, in fact, at one o’clock in the morning we tied up alongside the quay. The safety and lack of motion in the harbour was absolutely wonderful. I found a berth, collapsed, mumbled something about ‘never going to sea again’ and promptly slept for sixteen hours until five in the afternoon, returning to bed at nine!
It is amazing how one can bounce back! Forty-eight hours after ‘That Sunday’, I was thinking what a good day’s trial it had been. We had found some weaknesses. We had learnt our lesson about the log line. Never again did we allow it to become tangled with the propshaft. As for the failure of the main halyard after the most violent and unnecessary gybe we were ever to undergo, I found that the steel eye at the masthead to which the halyard’s double block had been shackled had been torn open. It took several days to work out how to improve on the system, but finally the solution was found, thanks to Rob Wicks and Stuart Young of a company called Rimtex. We unbolted each of the masthead plates with their single welded eyes, and replaced them with some new plates on to which short lengths of chain had been welded, everything being galvanised after fabrication. We then reconnected the double blocks, shackling each one to the lowermost of three dangling chain links. The plan worked, and a week later we were comforted by the knowledge that another potential problem had been averted by action taken while still in Port Elizabeth, which to me, at least, was more than living up to its reputation as the ‘Friendly City’.
On Saturday, 19th April, Jan left us to go to Swaziland, very much on the understanding that he would return a few days before the date of our departure, whenever that might be. It was a pity that he missed the events of the following day, which proved most entertaining. This was the day arranged for Tin Hau’s Chinese commissioning, starting at half past three, organised entirely by the Chinese community but set up in the first place by our friend, Ivor Sing Key, the painter of Tin Hau’s dragon.
We spent the morning preparing for the party and dressing the ship overall, taking care to place the flags in the correct order (an order that did not spell out some signal). Everyone arrived as planned and we were presented with a brass dragon plaque, a Chinese flag, and some good luck, health and happiness cards before we all moved on board; some thirty-five people in all. In the wheelhouse we enjoyed some delicious Chinese food, and passed a happy afternoon feeling properly blessed and encouraged. However, conversation rapidly faded come early evening, and after some polite goodbyes everyone had suddenly gone. Afterwards we found out the reason. Half the party had been feeling seasick! We had become so acclimatised to the boat’s motion that we had not even noticed that we were moving. We had been given a truly wonderful afternoon, and felt bad that we had unwittingly caused discomfort to our generous friends. Hopefully no one was put off boats!
One subject talked about a lot at the Chinese blessing was the name we had chosen for our boat ‘Tin Hau’ (pronounced ‘tin how’), a name well known to any Chinese person from the coastal regions of southern China and Hong Kong, but less known elsewhere.
Initially we had wanted a Swazi word, as our boat was effectively conceived in Swaziland. We had considered a number of names, the favourite becoming ‘Lilandza’. However, after a while, Lynda got the feeling that a boat with the hull form and sails of a Chinese junk should have a Chinese name. We started to think of all the alternatives, trying to pick a word that would not just have a significant
meaning, but also one that would not be too hard to spell, pronounce or be remembered by others.
As early as 1983 we had been given a small figurine of the Chinese goddess of the sea, patroness of fisher folk and queen of the heavens, Tin Hau (or T’ien Hou), by my cousin, Pat Loseby, who had lived (and sailed) in Hong Kong for most of her life. She told us the whole story of Tin Hau and we learnt of the importance of the goddess to the junk people of Hong Kong, even today. Every year a festival is held in Joss House Bay on Tin Hau’s birthday (the twenty-third day of the third moon). Pat told us how it was normal for a junk to carry a figurine of Tin Hau on board and that, for this reason, she was giving one to us, together with the promise that each year our boat would be remembered at the festival. As far as calling our boat ‘Tin Hau’ was concerned, back in 1983 we had never considered it, assuming it would be sacrilegious.
Two years later when we sent to Pat for approval the first of our proposed Chinese names, ‘P’an-T’ao’, she consulted her Chinese friends and came back to us with the definite advice, ‘No. P’an-T’ao is bad joss.’ We learnt that it was associated with death and not immortality as we had originally thought. ‘Why don’t you consider calling her Tin Hau?’ she asked. She herself had owned a boat called ‘Tin Hau’ many years before.
So 'Tin Hau' it became.
We were at last reaching the point where the departure from South Africa on Tin Hau’s maiden voyage looked imminent and real. Each day, many important loose ends were being tied up, such as the rope handholds in the pilothouse, the cills over the doors, the pin rails on the shrouds, a cork notice-board under the chart table lid, spare fuses and bulbs, photocopies of log sheets and sextant calculation sheets, a satisfactory stowage system for the windsurfer and for the liferaft, wooden stopper plugs for the through-hull fittings for use in emergencies, tool boxes, a very comprehensive medical and dental kit (I think Lynda was looking forward to a chance of some amateur surgery on her husband!), mug and tea towel holders... and a host of other items. We continued to go out each day for test sails, initially only tacking through one hundred and seventy degrees, but eventually bringing it down in slight seas to one hundred and thirty degrees, very much aware that this was the area in which further junk research, as well as future Tin Hau experimenation, would almost certainly bring great improvements.
Cutting the Dragon's Tail Page 10