Alone Across the Atlantic

by Francis Chichester

  I am full of moans this morning. I felt desperate struggling with the mainsail, my hands are unpleasantly tender with the skin and nails worn thin handling gear; everything in the boat seems to be damp if not wet. I have the Aladdin stove going full blast.

  I went on strike and said ‘Breakfast and coffee before setting the genoa.’ Sigh; my break is over. By the way, what am I moaning about, the one thing I was worrying about, my chest, which had become very painful coughing or handling gear, seems better this morning. And the sun is shining.

  1625 hrs. I caught sight of that last sentence. The sun certainly did not shine for long. I set the genoa and trimmed the sails and Miranda to keep the required heading – setting Miranda to the required 5 or 10 degrees seems to take me ½ to 1 hour on a fresh tack. It seems to require more handling than the sail trimming.

  I used valuable sun-time in oiling the piston hanks of the No. 3 jib which were real finger-biters, so that when I got out the sextant I just got the sun down to the horizon when the overcast hid it completely. However it was not a vital matter. Although I like knowing exactly where I am, it is not essential in mid-Atlantic. It was my own fault anyway, because I saw the frontal overcast sky approaching.

  By 1240 I was pretty hungry and determined to treat myself to the big surprise, the haggis. I’m not sure what goes with it but I put on some potatoes and onions and laid out what I’m certain no good Scot would eat it without – a bottle of Scotch.

  As soon as all this was fairly under way I realized that the genoa was overpowering the boat so I dressed fully and changed it to No. 2 jib. Surprising how little the wind was as soon as the genoa was off compared with the bluster with it set, the ominous thunder of the leach shaking, the whines in the rigging.

  I’m afraid this interlude may have overcooked the haggis but it was very good and most interesting. I pondered on what fine tough people the Scots must be if they live on haggis.

  Now I am reclining on my berth in sumptuous peace of mind and body hardly turning my head when a kettle flies across the cabin. The movement is certainly lively, we are on our way again. I shall have to go up for a retrim soon. I see by the tell-tale compass at the end of the table that we are 30° off course south of west which shows the wind is steadily backing.

  On second thought, retrimming would hardly gain an other 10 ° on the wind because the jib is shaking already when she comes up to 270 °. She wanders through an arc of 20-30 °, in this case 250 to 275°, whereas the heading I want is 285°. I expect the wind to shoot round to SW. soon, when I shall have to tack. I think I might as well have a little indolent ease meanwhile.

  At last I have found the chocolate hoard. I’ve made several attempts to locate it but every likely spot seemed filled with David Lewis’s first-aid and medical supplies. I ran into a box of streptomycin under the starboard pilot berth mattress with a most impressive assortment of medical specialities. I tried under the covering of the port berth and ran into two sun-stills for distilling fresh water out of salt by using sun-heat.

  In the forecabin I was baulked by a large dump of emergency rations on one berth and a huge red box of lifeboat distress signals in the other. In another drawer I ran into David’s tin of anti-shark powder.

  I have still had no contact with anyone since leaving Plymouth and hope Sheila won’t be worrying. I can’t do anything today about the R/T because I can’t hoist the aerial on the port side while the mainsail is set there on this tack. I have not seen a ship since the fishing smack L’Inconnu1woke me up early after the start of the race.

  I’m surprised to see that yesterday’s run was 80 miles sailed when we seemed to be in difficulty the whole time with bad weather. I suppose we were scuttling along pretty fast with the strong wind astern even when we had nothing but the small jib up.

  I lost the red gash bucket overboard this morning when I was emptying it. It looked very cocky sitting scarlet on the surface. I was sorry to see it go.

  I’ve got an awful lot of jobs I ought to do but I’m tired. Handling the sails in a strong wind builds up to hard work. Thank heaven the sky looks brighter seen from where I indolentolate in my berth. Bong! That landed on the cabin top with much noise.

  1My log, June 12th at 1100 hrs., records that I was woken by L’Inconnu Camaret which came alongside in a rough sea with visibility very bad. She was obviously intending to board Gipsy Moth. No doubt she thought she had a nice piece of salvage of an abandoned yacht. The crew looked very surly when I appeared and they disregarded my waving as they quickly sheered off and went in the opposite direction.

  7. June 22nd to 25th

  The Mysterious Vessel – Miranda at Work – Over-canvassed

  – Gale – The other Miranda – China Tea and Cake – Third

  of the Voyage – Slim Chances of Winning – Vikings and Ravens

  – Gastronomic Fantasy – Crash in the Night – Another Gale

  – In Praise of John Tyrrell – Tender Fingers and Fatigue –

  Depression – Seas 15 feet High – Anything for Peace – The

  Man with the Hosepipe – Sunshine – Under Twins again –

  The Life-line – Miranda Loses her Grip

  22nd June. It is hard to keep track of the date, there is so much going on. What a sight for mad housewives … what a din when I went below at 1220, just past noon. The cabin sole covered in papers, wet clothes, cordage, anything loose in the boat. While the din was frightful … every bottle, jar, cup and plate, spoon or what-have-you crashing from one side of its cupboard to the other. Kettles and saucepans clanging, stowed tins clinking, water in the tank below the cabin sole booming as it rushed from side to side. The big No. 2 jib in its bag had attacked the Primus and was impaled on the pump handle. Well, it was only the effect of the rolling while I was on deck.

  If we go on getting these violent changes of weather, the Herculean Viking and my other rivals will be catching me up. Look what’s happened since I was last writing yesterday afternoon. We went well at 7 knots all the afternoon, with the wind steadily backing through NW. to West.

  A ship passed us but I made no attempt to signal her. I waved at the chap on the bridge and then to the cook, I think, looking over the stem. She was called CYAA. I don’t know what language that is but she looked very foreign, a dirty rusty grey with a remarkable lot of radar and radio gear on her mast aft. An open lattice work structure in the well-deck. I thought if I tried to signal she wouldn’t understand and might come dangerously close.

  For some reason I felt apprehensive as she passed. After drawing ahead she sheered across my bows and steamed ahead, obviously to find out the direction in which I was going. She could not know much about yachts. Otherwise she would know that the direction of a yacht is governed by the wind at the time.

  I was equally curious about where she was going, which appeared to be Baffin Land or somewhere in that direction. She looked like a tanker, but a tiny one. I wondered if she was a submarine refuelling ship or perhaps a rocket missile spotter. Only about 1,500 tons I estimated.

  By 2100 hrs. the wind had fallen light and I changed jibs again, setting the genoa. I went to sleep. The wind continually backing and Miranda following it faithfully, I awoke at 2300 hrs. to find we were nearly headed south. So I tacked but after that I could not get her to go again. She hung about pointing northwards and refused to budge. Finally in disgust I went below. A few minutes later I noted with surprise on the telltale compass that we were steady on our course, 295° compass and sailing quietly along. Evidently Miranda’s way of showing me what a slacker I was!

  The boat sailed 16 miles while I slept four hours when I awoke to find the wind had continued to back to SE. and we were again headed 220° but on the opposite (port) tack. I trimmed sails and vane gear, which took nearly an hour and again I slept. Gradually the wind grew stronger and stronger. I half woke and thought I ought to change to a smaller jib but slept on. Gipsy M. was racing through the night like a scalded cat. If she could take it, it was great racing. The
going got rougher and rougher and I could hear the shaking leeches drumming hard which showed she was over-canvassed. But I turned over and slept on. Finally at 1000 hrs. I got up reluctantly; this riotous gallop must slow down. Meanwhile she had sailed 38 miles in the last 5½ hours. I soon put a stop to that progress. As soon as I handed the genoa, she stopped dead with the mainsail flogging.

  It was now blowing up pretty hard and I tried to reef the main. It seemed a desperately tough job. Everything jammed or caught up. If I headed the boat into the wind the mainsail could be reefed easily enough but would flog itself to bits while the least wind I could keep in her to keep her quiet was too much for reefing because it pressed the sail against the shrouds and jammed the slides in their track.

  I did get two reefs rolled down, but the wind increased faster than I could reef. It was blowing a gale by now. Finally I gave up reefing and lowered the whole sail. By now even this had become quite a job. As soon as the sail was down the boom began swinging from side to side and must be hobbled before it caused havoc.

  At the critical moment the topping lift uncleated itself and let the boom onto the life-line round the ship. But luck was with me. I caught the flying part of the topping lift before it disappeared in the sky above and I hauled on it to lift the boom off the life-line while I hauled on the main-sheet at the same time to clamp down the swinging boom. What a murderous weapon that boom can be!

  Finally I set a small jib, got the yacht onto her heading, cleaned up the mess of cordage and wire littering the deck and cockpit and went below where I then enjoyed a very good breakfast. Meanwhile the wind has been dropping as I write so I suppose I must see about more sail change.

  No, I can hear that high-pitched whine in the rigging above the cacophony of pots and pans, so perhaps I shall be justified in leaving her plodding westwards with only a small jib. I do think this continued bad weather is out of season. It is midsummer today but I have not succeeded in drying a single bit of clothing for ten days. However, we did knock out 121 miles yesterday in spite of the calm and wildly changing winds. The log reads 1,162 miles to date.

  If only it would calm down a bit I could rig the aerial and make some more attempts to send a message; we are on the right tack for setting it but it is a great toil to rig anything in these conditions.

  Later I popped up quickly for a look-see and was quite pleased to find it still blowing pretty hard from the south. Plenty of whine in the rigging. Visibility about 200 yards in the mist. The sea appears to be blown flat but it can’t be really. Otherwise we should not have this rolling. I retrimmed to get back on the right heading. We have averaged only 31⁄3 knots while I have been below and a hardy type would set a trysail. But not this chicken, thank you. Twice I’ve set the damn thing this trip and it takes more stuffing out of me than changing ten headsails.

  Trysail conditions only seem to last a few hours and I think it will be good policy to sacrifice the extra two knots and keep nice and fresh for putting the mainsail back immediately conditions are suitable for it. With that trysail caper, I am so fagged out that I delay resetting the main and the operation takes three times as long when there is a trysail with tackles to clear away first. Have I proved to your satisfaction that another little zizz is the best policy before taking any next step?

  1610 hrs. By this time I have the mainsail fully reefed, set and drawing very nicely. I had a little snooze after breakfast and read a few pages about Miranda in The Tempest, which I enjoy just as much for the hundredth reading. After that I felt in fettle again and had no trouble at all in finishing off reefing the main, hoisting and trimming it. Wind still Force 6, visibility bad, 200 yards in mist and drizzle. A few seas hit us though the sea looks moderate.

  One sea fairly startled me; it was exactly like a bomb of the 1939 war exploding, and not too far away; the boat jumped and shook – or perhaps I did! But there was no malice in it. I think old Neptune forgets his power at times and was just giving us a friendly slap on the buttock as if saying, ‘On with you, fellow, get cracking and good luck.’ Now I’m enjoying a cup of Earl Grey China tea and hoeing into the delicious cake Mrs Buckmaster, our housekeeper, made for me. I should love to see her face and hear what she would say if her kitchen suddenly tipped up 50 °. Shall I finish the cake or leave one slice for tomorrow?

  I am using far more paraffin than I expected. Tilley takes a bottle a night, and I have had the stove (Aladdin) going quite a lot trying to dry out the cabin and warm it, with the damp clammy fog about. Then there are my three cabin-lamps and the riding-light, Old Faithful.

  Last night when it was clear I set Old Faithful in the stern instead of Tilley, which means a big saving of fuel, but I like to have Tilley out there when visibility is bad. Her light is very powerful and should be a good protection against being run down. On a clear night I think it would be a mistake because any ship seeing it might wonder what was happening and come scraping alongside if I was asleep.

  I must pop out and see what speed we are making with the reefed main and small jib. With the small jib only we were doing 3½ knots – modest but better than nothing and in the right direction. 1,181½ at 1722 hrs., 6½ miles in 72 minutes makes 5½ knots. I suppose that is as much as one could expect from the set-up.

  Perhaps she might stand a bigger jib in an hour’s time or so. The wind is abating. I must get the best speed I can, but I’m satisfied by now that the first consideration is to keep fresh and have a reserve of strength. If I bullock along when I’m exhausted I make silly decisions and take twice as long over a job as I would if fresh. If I have a difficult job to do when I’m fatigued, if it can possibly be deferred – which often it can’t be in an emergency – I’ll do the job better and quicker if I go and sleep for ten minutes first.

  One of my chief reasons for speed is that I would dearly love to race Sheila across the Atlantic. She leaves England on the 26th (it was the 28th) on the French liner Flandres, which I believe does 21 knots. She should arrive therefore some time on July 2nd (it was the 5th).

  I have done exactly one-third of my direct journey at noon today so if I keep up the same pace I should arrive July 14th. My chances of racing her, therefore, look remarkably slim. In fact I should need to travel at twice my pace up to date which is absurd. Eleven days today, therefore thirty-three days at same pace. Failing that I would dearly love to beat thirty days across. Quick! I must go and crack on some more sail!

  1920 hrs. My luck’s in tonight. It is still blowing Force 6 or thereabouts, and the whine in the rigging has a purposeful note not apparent below deck. The boat is going well with the present rig and has averaged 5·8 knots since I last went up at 1722 hrs. I trimmed the mainsail a little but it is setting beautifully for a fully reefed sail. The wind is heading us and we are already 10 ° above the required course, but that can’t be helped. I’d rather it stayed WSW. even if that prevents our making good our best course than fly all round the compass requiring endless sail changes.

  There is quite a lot of water hitting the decks. I pumped the bilges dry with fifty-two strokes. As this is only the second pump-out I’ve given her since the start it looks as if the hull is tight below the waterline which is all that really matters.

  I shouldn’t complain about everything being damp inside above the waterline. After all the Vikings when they set out to discover America – Erik the Red and that lot – must have had a damn sight wetter living-quarters than I have. And they had to share theirs with some ravens, too, which must have had some serious drawbacks in a small boat.

  David Lewis, when sailing alone to Norway last year had a pigeon come aboard and stay. A seasick pigeon inside a Vertue for several days appals me. The extraordinary thing is that it laid an egg. David’s friends say the pigeon did not realize David was only a GP and not a gynaecologist.

  Where is the Guinness? I must do something about this Guinness; I have three cases aboard and am hardly halfway through one. I’m a bit wary of it when there is any serious deck work in prospect. Whethe
r this export variety is specially gingered up (I had this lot out of bond as duty-free stores) I don’t know, but I reckon that three small cans have the same effect as two-thirds of a bottle of whisky. With serious work in view, I drink whisky to keep my head clear.

  Now for lunch; it looks as if I shall not get as far as dinner today. I wish I had that gastronomic epicure Gabor Denes here to advise me. Last night I had a ham omelette. I find a well-cooked potato in its jacket hard to beat as a foundation.

  I would like some grilled fresh salmon and fresh peas. What about new potatoes, a tin of French petits pois and some prawns – out of a tin, alas, but very nice. Tomato soup – no I had that last night, Mr. Heinz’s best and delicious it was but a whole tin tends to blunt the appetite. I think perhaps a little Danish blue with cream crackers and some nuts and raisins to top up with if desired. Put them on the menu anyway. After all it is midsummer night. How about a bottle of Burgundy for the occasion? No, perhaps not, it might make me think of the good companionship I am missing. I have never met anyone like Sheila for making a bottle of wine a great delight with her amusing and interesting companionship. I think she must be a Regency hostess come adrift from her century.

  Damn! the jib is shaking. I fear Miranda is pinching her a trifle. (Later) Now we are going like a cat with a scalded tail. It is the wind piping up again. I hope we are not in for a really serious storm because if so I may regret my midsummer night’s feast. Enough of this badinage – to the galley.

  23rd June. 1030 hrs. Well, I certainly ought to laugh about what I wrote yesterday. All that nonsense about getting to New York quickly. It would be a pretty feeble ha-ha. My doleful tale is this: last night after an excellent dinner I went on deck full of booze and bonhomie and thought that (crazy loon!) although she was skittling along at 5·8 knots, she would skittle along even faster with a full main. So I promptly unrolled the whole of my nicely rolled-tip reefing. I even pulled out a bigger jib but fortunately decided that would be too much of a good thing.