Cutting the Dragon's Tail

by Lynda Chidell

  Week two, which started out reasonably well with fair weather, quickly turned into a nightmare, rapid switches in wind direction, with even more rapid rises in wind strength and barometric pressure. Even though we kept hourly records of the barometer readings and wind strengths, soon it was not possible to predict switches except by observing the approach of squally conditions. This was all very well during daylight hours, but impossible at night especially when there was no moon. The wheelhouse contributed to the sense of unreality in that it took away the physical contact with the weather which many yachtsmen develop into a kind of sixth sense barometer. It also heightened the sensation of being out of control on a 'downhill' run when sailing on a dark night. If there was no moon, the sensation changed to that of feeling that one was steering the boat in an ever-tightening circle. These sensations disappeared as soon as one went out on deck, feeling the wind constantly blowing from one direction. Odd, to say the least.

  2nd June was a depressing day for all of us. Jeff discovered that one of the stainless steel dead-eye straps had snapped, and, worse still, that the foremast tabernacle doubler plate was lifting off the deck! It was unfortunate that we were in the teeth of a very nasty gale (winds of up to sixty knots), and unable to do much of any practical value. We desperately needed a calmer stretch to do anything worthwhile to repair the damage. Jeff and I sorted out the dead-eye by fixing a rope strop to it and re-reeving the lanyards. That job was the least of the worries though, as the masts were supposedly capable of surviving without stays. Every time one of us ventured to the foredeck for an inspection it seemed that the gap was widening and the rip in the weld was getting longer.

  That gale produced the most frightening conditions I had ever seen. The waves were huge. When I was able to bring myself to look out of the pilothouse windows, the spray was flying horizontally off the wave crests. The sea was an ominous shade of grey with foam swirling about on the surface which added to its evil appearance. Occasionally the very crests of the waves would tumble over themselves, but just before they did it was possible to catch a flash of green water. I'm not sure why, but those particular flashes filled me with fear. Our sails, by then, were as reefed as they could be without actually bare-poling and the wheel was lashed. Tin Hau was effectively somewhere between lying ahull and being hove-to. The pounding she took during that storm was terrific, and apart from the dead-eye problems and the tabernacle failure she stood up to it well. Most of the crew had gone off their food again. Just as well as it would have been very difficult indeed to have produced a 'proper' meal in conditions where food took off from cooking pots like Harrier jump jets and crockery flew off horizontal surfaces like flying saucers. I did try cooking in these conditions one night. The meal ended up all over the place. Four servings were lost accidentally the final one was hurled by myself in a fit of temper at being unable to cope. David kindly cleaned up the mess while I sobbed my heart out. Since then we followed a policy of having nourishing do-it-yourself food available for that kind of weather. Far more sensible that the crew should be able to eat little and often and, more importantly, when they felt like it.

  During the worst of the weather we spotted a trawler some miles to the north of us. Twelve hours later we spotted another ship some distance away. Keeping track of them while ducking and diving in wave peaks and troughs, however, was impossible. We were very frustrated at not being able to make contact with these vessels on the VHF.

  Eventually the gale abated sufficiently for us to be able to get out on deck and consider how to tackle the foremast problem. The doubler plate had ripped right across the aft end like a flimsy piece of toilet tissue. Jeff had woken us with the news that, in his opinion, we could well lose the foremast and the sail unless urgent action was taken. The obvious thing to do first was to get the sail right down, use the engine to hold the boat head-to-wind as far as possible, and do our best to jury rig the mast. The waves were still enormous. It remained too rough to operate the generator given the exhaust outlet position we had at that time or risk taking power tools out on deck. The wind was dying down though. So, with luck, we could at least do something with ropes, and work out a way to carry out a more permanent repair. Driving rain squalls continued to blast down on us for the first hour or two. Jeff and I got the forepeak hatch open between squalls to sort through mooring lines. Eventually we chose two long twenty-four millimetre diameter polyester lines with bights already spliced on the ends, and a third line of the same diameter, but a little shorter, for an interim stay. Our plan was to lash the foremast, from a point about one third of the way up, to the boom gallows aft. This would, we hoped, make it secure enough to send someone aloft to drop the bights of the other two lines over the masthead. The worry was that the added weight of a person suspended from the masthead, which already leaned forward, might just tip the balance and send it toppling. This was a job for a lightweight crew member, not just any volunteer. Even though this was logical, Jeff was not happy about our choice, as the lightest crew member (other than Jax) was also the most important the skipper. Without giving us too much time to brood on that aspect of it, David got himself into the bosun's chair, clipped on to the spare foremast halyard and had himself hauled aloft. The job went quickly and easily and it was with some relief that we sent him back to the wheelhouse as soon as he was down again. Angel had had the unenviable task of trying to keep the boat head-to-wind during all this. Barry, Jeff and I continued the jury rigging work on deck, tensioning and securing the new 'stays' well aft to the very solid handrails. We wore harnesses all the time we were out there and were very glad we did as we were constantly being buffeted around by the high seas and several times were slammed over by breaking waves. There was one which knocked all three of us over and we were flung to the extent of our harness lines. I doubt we were in serious danger of being washed overboard, but it was comforting to know that we had the extra security of the harnesses. We had several trips to the warmth of the wheelhouse for a change of wet-gear and a hot cuppa. Jax competently took control of the galley and ensured that all had a good, hot and nourishing meal as soon as we were able. She also prepared a number of rope strops ready for replacing the broken straps of the dead-eyes which, by that time, were many. Night fell before the desired level of calm had been reached. So work was left until the next day.

  5th June was much calmer in every way. The sea had gone down and the wind had virtually died out. The previous night David had pinched two heavy aluminium angles from the depths of the anchor locker. (Supports for the draining grid beneath the anchor chain.) These we intended to use to strengthen the deck. Bolted across the weld-rip in a fore and aft direction, they would help to reduce the tendency of the mast to tip forward. Once the generator was operable, David and Jeff drilled holes through one face of the angle ready for positioning on deck the following day. Our main worry then was that the third and final drill bit of the right size would not last long enough to drill the holes through the deck and doubler plates. Two had already been blunted going through the aluminium. All the men concentrated on the work to be done on the deck, and Jax and I attended to the business of keeping the boat moving. For once we were going in the right direction, even if under motor rather than sail. Our distance out of Port Elizabeth at that point was 616 miles. The work on the foredeck took all day and was finally completed at five thirty. A hearty cheer went up when the sails were hoisted again. A tired crew drifted lazily but contentedly through the most deserved happy hour on record.

  Shortly after we had enjoyed our evening meal, the westerly breeze started to intensify and all hands were called to the task of shortening sail. No sooner had each reef been taken in than the wind picked up further, requiring yet another two panels of reefing. When there was virtually no sail left up, (the sails were at two-zero-two), the crew all piled into the wheelhouse and shut the doors. Clearly we were in for another night of miserable weather.

  The crew had just had time to sort themselves out, and Jeff taken the helm from
me, when a rogue wave hit Tin Hau on the starboard side. There was an alarming clap as a wall of water hit the wheelhouse. The aft deck spotlight was still on after the reefing, so I had a clear view of this wave as it washed over the cabin top ahead, also of the port handrails as they dipped into the clear green sea. Bodies tumbled on to the port side, a tangled mass of arms and legs. The wheel spun cruelly out of Jeff's hands, smashing one of them with violent force. By the time Tin Hau had righted herself and we had collected our wits, Jeff's injured hand had already swollen to the size of a small melon. He was very dazed and obviously in a great deal of pain. Jax and I got him down to the saloon and made him comfortable on the floor wedged in by some cushions where we knew he would be safe if he passed out. Jax dug into the freezer for all the ice she could find, which we packed in plastic and bound lightly round the injured hand. Jeff was still conscious, so we were able to administer some trauma tablets to reduce the swelling and relieve the pain. The swelling was far too severe for us to tell whether or not any bones were broken. Only time would tell.

  Once the panic was over, we tried to work out exactly how far we had actually gone over. Usually Tin Hau sails at around twenty degrees off the vertical. The maximum angle of heel experienced previous to the rogue wave had been about forty degrees. David was prevailed upon to work it all out mathematically, and concluded we had heeled to about sixty degrees.

  The wind direction which accompanied this onslaught was, for a while, reasonably favourable and we were being chased by the waves a situation never before encountered. This led to the discovery of yet another problem. We had suddenly got a gushing fountain in the galley sink. It appeared we had placed it too low for these conditions. Jax gallantly mopped up the flood until I had worked out how to solve the problem. For immediate remedies, the simplest solutions are usually the best. We took off the drain hose at the sink end, stuffed a wooden bung in it, and clamped it to a point well above sea level. With the sink outlet blocked off we used a chuck-it method of disposal till a more permanent change could be made.

  That night everyone was either too frightened or dispirited to want to go to their berths. We all preferred to find a space on the settee or floor in the galley or saloon, and spent the night together. There was a lot of lifting and dumping of the boat by the confused waves. At one point all the cassette tapes leapt over their fiddle bars and landed on the sleepers on the saloon side of the cabin. The rail height was almost half that of the cassettes standing on end, so the reader can work out how heavily the boat was dropping into the troughs. Furthermore, it was the coldest night we had yet had.

  The following day, the sea was still very rough and the waves continued to break over Tin Hau. The sea was running too high for David to gain accurate sun sights. What he did get appeared to put us back sixty or seventy miles. In view of the continued bad weather that night, the fact that we were miles from any shipping lanes, and the exhausted state of the crew, David decided to put the not-under-command lights on, ordered a hearty meal for everyone, and then suggested we all had a night off and attempt to get twelve hours sleep.

  That was the only time in all the years we sailed Tin Hau that we ever abandoned watch. In the circumstances, it was a very wise decision as the crew had had it rough for days. The respite refreshed everyone and greatly improved morale. By the time we emerged from our short hibernation period, the wind was still blowing hard (from the wrong direction of course) and the sea was lumpy and high. However, there were indications that a moderation could be expected, and we were all feeling better able to cope again. By then we had completed our second week at sea, covered 734 miles, and though we had been mentally and physically battered were prepared for more.

  The third week started much better, with blue sky, rainbows, soft fluffy clouds and, later, plenty of sunshine. Ideal wind, too. We still had not reached the first week's target point and ahead of us was a place we were dreading: Walter's Shoals. This was a patch of relatively shallow water miles from anywhere, which was pin-pointed on the routeing chart as being the worst spot for a likely gale. For the first time on the voyage it was warm enough for everyone to divest themselves of their sea boots, and even to remove sweaters. All the exposed feet, looking like albino prunes, caused some amusement. The skipper had his first bucket bath of the trip. We all thought it was about time he did, but didn't like to say so. Trossy had remained with us, but we had been too absorbed in other things to notice. The best news was that Jeff's hand was going to be fine. I'd had a chance to give it a thorough examination once the swelling was reduced, and was very relieved to find nothing obviously broken.

  On 9th June we had a double celebration, passing the week one waypoint and our first time zone. The celebration took the form of a treat. Jax and I made chocolates. We catered for everyone's favourite which included cherries, almonds, peppermint cream, coffee cream and brandy praline. The following day was also worth noting in that we reached the thousand mile mark. The weather was sufficiently mild, and the wind gentle enough, for us to carry out some routine chores. A number of sail ties had come loose or fallen out, several parrels needed tying up again, and the snotters had become so chafed they needed turning end-for-end.

  We passed the dreaded Walter's Shoals without incident. The gale never materialised. We did, however, nearly run over a dozing albatross. He paddled away at the last possible moment, panicked into a most ungainly takeoff. Albatrosses are so large they need to take off from the crest of a wave in order to get airborne.

  12th June was notable because we made our best day's run. 147 miles from noon to noon, bringing our total to 1,305. The last couple of hours we were pushing it, though, sailing over-canvassed in order to make as big a 'score' as possible. Once the figure had been verified, we reefed to make the helm lighter. Even then we were making six and a half knots, at times feeling a bit out of control. By 4 p.m. on that day, it was evident we were set to go through another gale. We were recording gusts of up to sixty knots. We spent the night hove-to, and awoke to find the wind had died. We were able to raise all sail as soon as the crew had risen from their bunks.

  We were by now far enough into our voyage for Jacqui and myself to do a stocktake of food supplies. Everything we had taken on in Port Elizabeth had been recorded, so it was possible to work out how much we had consumed. Perishables, like bread, were not expected to last the voyage and substitutes had been planned. All our quantities proved to be good except for sugar. I had obviously misjudged the amount of sugar six people would consume, and hadn't realised that Jean-Marc had an inordinately sweet tooth. He ladled sugar on to everything that didn't require tomato sauce (his other passion). Rationing had to be started at once, and the shortfall made good with the other sweeteners we carried.

  By the time the domestic sorting had been completed, the wind was up once again. We were recording gusts of fifty-five knots. Everyone was getting heartily sick of the heavy weather conditions we had encountered. Barry was totally mesmerised by the waves. He spent a lot of time clinging to the handholds in the wheelhouse scaring himself (and others) witless. As often as not, he would provide the galley with a running commentary on the state of the waves. He had Jax and myself grabbing for handholds many a time while cooking - false alarms in reality, because Tin Hau would merely rise up the extra large waves in the same way she took all the others. Sometimes the professional side of Barry overcame his morbid fascination, and he would be strapped on to something on deck trying to capture, on his innumerable cameras, the sheer size of the waves. His most dramatic picture of the waves was taken from inside, as he cleverly framed them with the wheelhouse windows. I wondered what we would have been able to record with a video camera, and suspected that may have given us a more dramatic keepsake.

  All our windspeeds were measured using a hand held anemometer at deck level. As I understand it, yachts with wind monitoring equipment at the masthead get a far more accurate picture of the true strength. Had we had such equipment fitted, our readings would probably h
ave been twenty per cent higher. As far as measuring wave height is concerned, it is really a matter of judgement on the part of the crew. There was no equipment for measuring it on our boat. Our yardstick was the pilothouse roof, knowing its height was twelve feet above sea level. Figures and estimates varied. David was the only person who had had previous ocean sailing experience and therefore was possibly better able to give an accurate assessment. I do know the rest of us felt his figures were always on the low side, perhaps because he insisted on measuring what he called the 'significant wave height', an engineer's term meaning the average height of the highest one third of all waves. The highest he noted was five metres (sixteen feet). It is easy to see how such figures can be distorted and how the term 'tall stories' originated.

  The fourth week started with a bump quite literally. It was another of the many days we spent hove-to. We were following the established watch routine for this state; that is, just one person on watch while all the others tried to sleep, or at least to conserve strength. David and I were cabinised, he asleep and I about to get up. Tin Hau was being tossed about like a cat's toy. As I sat up on my berth, a wave hit the boat quite hard. The lurch was sufficient to throw me against the lee cloth, which tore free of its anchor point (later we changed to lee boards). Everything on the bed, including me, was unceremoniously dumped on the hatch in the cabin sole, with such force that the hatch broke and dropped on to the suspended flexible holding tank below. The ties slinging the tank snapped too, and the whole lot ended up in the bilge. David slept through it all and awoke to my indignant cries for help. The bedding which had gone down with me had got so tangled that I couldn't lift myself out of the bilge, and I was lying there like a turtle that had been turned on its back. No serious injury to life or limb, but more than a little damage to be repaired. Meanwhile, David and I had the 'hole-in-the-floor' to negotiate for a few days, until the weather had calmed sufficiently to make a new hatch.