Jeff left us for two and a half weeks to attend to business in Swaziland, but he was back on 16th May, as loyal, supportive and humorous as ever. By this time we had completed our twenty-first trip out of the harbour, and had given many people the unusual experience of sailing a junk off Port Elizabeth. We had been trying all sorts of sail combinations and learning when each was applicable (see Figure 13). For example, we used full sail (six panels of the foresail, six panels of the main and six panels of the mizzen) in winds of force four or less. In winds of force five we would reef to five-five-four (one panel less on the mizzen than on the other two sails). At force six we would reef to four-four-three, and at force seven or eight to three-three-two. In order to reduce pressure at the wheel when sailing downwind, particularly if the sea was in any way rough, we would drop the mizzen sail an extra two panels, sailing at five-five-two in a force five. We discovered how well Tin Hau would sail dead downwind, goose-winged, with the main out to starboard, the mizzen to port and the foresail sheeted amidships. Later we would find many more combinations and their uses, sometimes quite extraordinary, like sailing with the mizzen alone.
This may all sound rather complicated to the non-sailor, or over-simplified to the expert. Yet for us at the trial stage, learning how to sail a junk was one of our main objectives. Before we had launched, our knowledge of junks had been limited to what we had read. We remembered one story in which a junk had been shipped from the Far East to Sydney, Australia, where she was sailed for the first time. The owner found to his dismay that the performance was terrible, and he paid a Chinese junk master (or ‘laudah’) to come to Sydney to sort out his problems. The laudah was immediately successful. I am not sure whether or not this story is true, but it made us aware that there could be more to sailing junks than met the eye. As it turned out, our fears were unjustified. Learning how to sail Tin Hau proved to be relatively easy, and we were – and still are – impressed with the junk sail’s advantages and simplicity.
One manoeuvre we practised again and again was our man overboard drill, not so much because I was expecting to lose anyone overboard with our good, high, fixed handrails, but more so that each and every one of us would become familiar with handling Tin Hau under sail. ‘David overboard,’ I would yell suddenly, throwing a sealed plastic bottle into the sea. Then I would press the stopwatch button on my wristwatch and wait for some action – hopefully! Another time it would be Lynda. Or Barry. Or Jeff. Or Jax. Our rescue times varied from three minutes to fifteen minutes. At least we always retrieved the bottle.
On Sunday, 18th May, after our twenty-third time out of the harbour, I phoned Jan in Swaziland to say we were ready. All being well, and depending on the forecast, we would leave on the following Saturday (24th May). Lynda and Jax cooked forty or so meals for six persons at Andy and Carol’s house, bringing them back to Tin Hau’s freezer once they had been fully frozen ashore. We were going to eat well! I spent an afternoon preparing a star and planet chart for May and June in the approximate area of our voyage. I wanted to know in advance which navigational planets and stars would be useful, and roughly where they would be in the sky. We also worked out watch-keeping lists. Jeff would be in charge of one watch with Jan and Jax; I would have the other watch with Lynda and Barry. Subsequently, especially when we had an autopilot, Lynda and I were happy to take the boat on our own, but on the maiden voyage with an untested boat, no autopilot and a potentially dangerous section of the ocean in midwinter, I definitely wanted crew.
On Tuesday, 20th May, we took a tv crew out for a quick sail, but found out later that the entire interview was drowned by wind noise! On returning to the harbour we received an upsetting phone call. Jan could not join us after all. He was having major problems on the farm. This was a great disappointment to us– Jan was the ideal sort of person to have along; he had proved most capable on all the jobs he did for us, particularly those involving mechanical work. He was exceptionally strong, the original gentle giant. His sense of humour was always evident. He had already shown much generosity and encouragement towards us.
Without Jan I urgently needed to find another crew member, and we only had three days before our planned departure! A number of people came to mind, Tony and Andy being the obvious choices, but I knew already that they had too much in the way of work and family commitments. Another possibility, a young lad of twenty-one called Jean-Marc Gabriel, (commonly known as ‘Angel’) had been showing some interest in Tin Hau over the past few weeks. We knew he was keen to reach Mauritius and, after that, Réunion, in order to report for French military training. He was obviously physically fit and used to the sea, being a keen participant in what to me always seemed one of the toughest of marine sports – surfing. He belonged to that exclusive band of lunatics to be seen miles out to sea on their own in the roughest of conditions in midwinter, permanently seeking the ideal wave. I had seen such people in Cape Town, and again in large numbers in the Eastern Cape. Only one group of nautical enthusiasts have surpassed the surfers in terms of guts and insanity – the offshore windsurfers, for whom I have nothing but the most profound respect and admiration.
It didn’t take much to persuade Jean-Marc to join us. He was happy with the daily charge of five rand we asked from each crew member to cover his or her food expenses; and he accepted responsibility for his own travel costs from Port Louis onwards. In no time he found a place on the deck to stow his surfboard, and he agreed to be at the quayside at six o’clock in the morning on the day of our planned departure.
This left us two days to complete our provisioning, fill our diesel and water tanks and the gas cylinders, make arrangements for our faithful car (it was left for Andy to sell), complete the paperwork with the customs, harbour and immigration officials, pay a final visit to the dentist, and say our farewells to so many wonderful friends and well-wishers. My feelings about South Africa were as mixed as ever. I knew I would miss the wide open spaces, the smell of Africa, the sunshine, the beautiful scenery, the wine and the food, and above all the African people of all colours, races and creeds. But it would be good to be free of all that bureaucracy and away from a sort of shadow that hung over the whole country, and of which we had been most aware whenever we had made the occasional visit to South Africa from Swaziland. ‘What guns do you have in your car?’ we would be asked by the South African immigration officials on entering South Africa at Oshoek. ‘What fruit do you have?’ the Swazi officials would ask on our return (importation of fruit to Swaziland was not allowed). It was like returning from a huge, somewhat frightening metropolis into a gentle, friendly village.
I paid one last visit to the helpful meteorological office at Port Elizabeth’s airport on Friday 23rd May, receiving print-outs of forecasted weather maps for seven days ahead (which, except for the first day, proved totally wrong!) I came to a decision: we would leave at seven o’clock the following morning. I anticipated that the passage to Mauritius, a distance of about 2,700 miles along the dog-legged route we would have to follow given the prevailing winds, would take between four and six weeks, although nothing could be certain in the Southern Ocean.
PART TWO
The Maiden Voyage
Lynda Chidell
As soon as David had received the weather reports for which he had been waiting, Barry and Jean-Marc were notified that they should report on board no later than six o’clock the following morning. The rest of us had made lists of last-minute shore activities we wished to carry out before departure. Now it was to these that we all turned our attention. Haircuts. Luxury treats to buy. Hot baths. (The latter featured on all four lists!)
I never asked my family what their feelings were when the news finally came that we were about to set off. I know that my own were a mixture of nervousness and excitement, and I’m sure the rest of the crew felt the same way. Those family members staying behind handled it so calmly that it made parting very easy for us.
Tony spent our last evening in port aboard Tin Hau. We had always said that
the seventh (unoccupied) berth would be reserved for him. We strongly urged him to join us on the adventure which lay ahead, even though we realised and appreciated that his work and family commitments at the time were too great for him to be able to do so. Tony had given so much of himself to Tin Hau– it had been more than just another job to him. We knew that a part of Tony would feel let down and unfulfilled unless and until he had experienced cruising aboard Tin Hau. It was with very heavy hearts that we said farewell to him that night. He would not be at the quayside the following morning to see Tin Hau sail away; he had told us he didn’t think he could stand it.
Departure day dawned and, after a quick cup of coffee, Jeff, Jax, David and I commenced work on departure details. Barry and Jean-Marc arrived promptly at six and very quickly stowed their personal belongings. Family, friends and a large number of unknown persons gathered at the quay. Andy was handed the keys of our trusty van, along with all the gear we were leaving behind. It was his task to dispose of it for us.
Tensions were mounting minute by minute as small jobs were completed and final checks made. Barry’s boss came aboard to take pictures for the newspaper and Barry found himself at the other side of the lens for once. At last we were ready. There were tearful hugs and kisses for all those who had given us so much support during the preceding months. As the crew stepped off dry land for the last time, a bottle of champagne was thrust into my arms by an unknown well-wisher. A much appreciated gesture of friendliness from the Friendly City we were about to leave.
Precisely two minutes after the appointed hour, our umbilical cord was severed. All lines were cast off and all hands turned to the stowing of fenders and coiling of mooring warps. Sails were raised in the harbour for the benefit of all those who had turned out of bed so early to give us the rousing send-off they did. A foghorn salute was given by a neighbouring trawler as we left the quay and glided towards the control tower at the entrance to the harbour. Permission to proceed was granted on the VHF at half past seven by the Port Controller as, for the last time, we made our way between the breakwaters. The first change of watch was scheduled for eight o’clock.
As soon as we were clear of the harbour we carried out a ‘cleansing’ of the boat. Chinese mythology would have us believe that junks attract demons and evil spirits while connected to the land. These spirits inhabit a dragon which dangles its tail in the wake of the boat. By performing a figure-of-eight manoeuvre, one cuts the dragon’s tail thus releasing the spirits into the deep. Most seafarers, ourselves included, are too superstitious to ignore such folklore. Cutting the dragon’s tail became a feature which marked the beginning of every voyage.
David had set the watch system at straight four hourly intervals with two dog-watches from 4 p.m. To 6 p.m. and from 6 p.m. To 8 p.m. The three Js made up the one watch – Jeff, Jean-Marc and Jax – and the other consisted of David, Barry and myself. It was a logical division of experience, strength and other skills. The system ensured that we all had the opportunity to experience dawn and dusk watches, as the rota meant one watch did not get the same spell on successive days. The initial course was set to take us well clear of land and across the Agulhas current to a point on latitude 35°S, south-east of Port Elizabeth, where we expected to meet the prevailing westerlies. These, we hoped, would carry us a long way towards our goal of Mauritius.
Our first day brought favourable winds which helped us achieve our initial aims. By dawn of the second day we had lost the wind altogether and found ourselves wallowing uncomfortably on a lumpy sea. Though we had crossed the current, skipper felt it was sensible to put as much distance between it and ourselves as possible. Reluctant though we were to use fuel unnecessarily, the engine was turned on to motor or motor-sail for as long as we felt we were at risk of being blown back towards the current and the coast of South Africa.
Dawn on our third day presented a more definite change in the weather. A force four easterly which gradually increased to force five and backed to east-north-east. By breakfast time the sea had risen a bit, and the motion of the boat had become uncomfortable enough to put four of the crew off their food. Those of us who had happily sailed in force five winds along the coast or in sheltered inland waters were now learning that the same strength wind can be a very different kettle of fish out in the open sea. We were experiencing the effects of a long fetch for the first time. In spite of being, by noon, 192 miles from land, there were a surprising number of small birds around. A lot of them looked, to my untrained eye, like land birds. By this time we were experiencing mini-gale conditions for the first time.
Our fourth day at sea was something of a milestone, in that it was the day we discovered we had a stowaway on board – a seventh crew member. David had been playing about with various settings of the wheel and sails in an attempt to see if it was possible to reduce the amount of human effort needed to guide the boat. After what seemed to me like a very short time indeed, he had worked it all out and with the help of a couple of newly-spliced heavy gauge lines (my only contribution to the exercise), we had our seventh ‘crew member’. Officially given the name ‘Number Seven’, he was warmly welcomed by all aboard. This discovery was made during our night watch and it was with great enthusiasm that David, Barry and I planned an amusing introduction for the off-watch when they eventually came on duty. The chess board was brought out of its locker and set up on the wheelhouse settee. I stationed myself out of sight in the galley, but ready to make a quick entrance and not miss the fun. Jax was the first to enter; she came in and said a few dopey words, looked around, then her eyes widened as she stared first at the wheel, then at the compass. The penny finally dropped as she saw that the wheel was lashed, and she let out a squeal of delight. Being first in, she was able to get into hiding for the arrival of Jeff and Angel. Number Seven was an absolute blessing. The discovery came none too soon, either, as by the end of that day, the sea had roughened and the wind had increased to force seven to eight.
Shortly after that, we had a spell of northerly winds, which, despite the moderately rough sea, made easier sailing. Several of the crew were still experiencing the misery of seasickness. It was time, in my opinion, that we had some decent wind and weather to get them over it and then we could, perhaps, enjoy the voyage. The first few days are always a problem on any passage. For a first voyage, good weather conditions at the start are desirable to acclimatise the crew quickly. Unfortunately, we were not so blessed. It took a little while for everyone to settle down. The shifts, which alternated very short spells of sleep with relatively long periods of physical and mental strain, were harder going than any of us expected, though they eventually became routine. We all had difficulty getting off to sleep during our first day or two. When we did sleep we didn’t always feel rested afterwards. The first reason was that our muscles did not relax, but continued to work, stabilising our bodies. Secondly, we knew that the wake-up call would come all too soon. Thirdly, one becomes attuned to the feel or rhythm of the boat in relation to the weather/sea conditions and slight changes can trigger in-built alarm systems into action. The last two factors kept our minds from switching off, and consequently we could not sleep as deeply as we might have wished.
It was almost a week before any of us had enough energy to bathe (albeit a sea-shower), or do the laundry. With six people on board and no idea how long the journey to Mauritius might take, we had to be very careful with our water consumption. Sweet water was for drinking, brushing teeth, cooking and washing faces only. Everything else had to be done in sea water. We had bought a large number of salt-water soap tablets at great expense. What a flop. They would not lather at all. We resorted to using shampoo for bathing as well as for hair. It lathered very well but made the decks slippery.
By this stage we had almost finished the commercially baked bread we had taken aboard in Port Elizabeth. Jax and I worked out a system for the baking of bread and muffins. Bread would be made by the midnight to 4 a.m. watch, and set in the oven to bake. A mixture for muffins wo
uld be made and set aside for baking in the next watch ready for breakfast. We got this arrangement down to a fine art and were turning out more than passable bread and rolls within days. By the end of the voyage we had progressed to croissants.
At the end of the first week, with 488 miles completed (much less than the skipper's target, to his disappointment), everything on board was beginning to return to some semblance of normality. Jean-Marc set the first fishing-troll and, in spite of the skipper's scepticism, managed to land a one and a half kilogram tunny within an hour. A smoother sea and gentler breezes were partly responsible for the uplift in spirits. Also, we had the unique experience of seeing at close quarters an awesome albatross which we christened 'Trossy'. There is nowhere on earth quite like the middle of an empty ocean. So much we take for granted on land becomes a matter of vital interest and importance. Every natural phenomenon, every living creature, is of consuming interest to the long distance sailor. Those creatures which keep small boats company at sea become 'friends' (which probably explains why all our longer term visitors or companions were given names). Trossy, 'our' albatross, was the largest bird we ever saw at sea. It flew figures-of-eight across our wake for hours at a time, day and night.
Cutting the Dragon's Tail Page 11