Blue Water, Green Skipper: A Memoir of Sailing Alone Across the Atlantic Page 16

  The second important route is the southern, or Azores, route. This involves setting a southwesterly course to and past the Azores, down to about latitude thirty-seven degrees north, then turning west and sailing to about longitude sixty-five degrees west, before turning northwest for Newport. On the face of it this route sounds silly, since it is about three thousand five hundred miles long, but it does have its advantages. In a year of typical weather, a skipper will have a lot of reaching winds and not nearly so much beating to windward as on the great circle route, and thus should be able to sail much faster. Nobody taking this route had ever won the race, but in each race somebody always came close, and often it turned out that boats taking the Azores route sailed fewer miles than boats which had had to tack back and forth on the great circle route. Another major attraction for the Azores route is kinder weather and lots of sunshine, and, of course, the Azores themselves are on the route in case a boat suffers damage or her skipper is injured. The big disadvantage of the route is the big Azores High, which, in addition to providing sunshine, can also provide extended periods of calm, and sailboats do not sail in calm weather: they sit on the sea, occasionally being pushed in the wrong direction by ocean currents.

  There are variations, as I have mentioned: there is a high, northern route, where some hope to pick up following winds, but the risk of ice is much higher; and there is the very southerly trade winds route, which offers almost certain free sailing, but which is so long that it has rarely been taken in the race. The big joker in the pack is the Gulf Stream, a strong ocean current which originates in the Gulf of Mexico, runs around the tip of Florida, up the east coast of the United States, turns northeast and continues across the Atlantic toward the British Isles. Anyone trying to sail a route between the great circle and the Azores routes will have to contend with this major, adverse current, and most prefer to avoid it, those on the great circle route remaining north of the stream, and those on the Azores route remaining south of it, until crossing the current almost at right angles when turning northwest for Newport. The excellent chart from the official race program is reproduced here and illustrates all the various routes.

  Many people had already made the decision to plunge straight across via the great circle, no matter what; others would not consider any route but the Azores. I was undecided, preferring to wait for the weather briefing the day before the race before making a decision, but I was biased toward the Azores route. Harp went well in light moderate airs, and I felt my level of experience was probably better suited to going south.

  I had had some advice from the Irish Weather Service, who had kindly sent me some charts and diagrams and reported on some studies of westerly winds in the North Atlantic, but the sum total of all these was that nobody could predict anything about the weather we would encounter with any degree of probability, let alone certainty. So I would wait for the final briefing, in the meantime soliciting as many opinions as possible—and there were almost as many opinions about the route as there were competitors. There was a great deal of caginess in any discussion of route, nobody being willing to commit himself on the subject. If somebody did commit himself he was probably lying and would be taking another route on the day. This caginess always made me laugh, since the whole question was so riddled with uncertainty and the weather on any route so unpredictable that it seemed to make little difference what anybody thought before the race.

  On Tuesday night, Richard Clifford invited me aboard Shamaal II, on which he lived, for drinks. It was a big party for a small boat, comprising Richard; myself; Robert Hughes, the Gibb self-steering expert; two other Royal Marine officers; the Bulgarian entry, Georgi Georgiev; and two people who were to have a large effect on my life, Mike and Lizzie McMullen. Mike was sailing Three Cheers, a fast trimaran designed by the very successful Dick Newick. His practice crew, David Hopkins, was also there.

  Richard Clifford, relaxed and confident at the start. Quest zooms by in the background.

  Mike McMullen had sailed Binkie, a thirty-two-foot monohull, in the last OSTAR and had finished well up. While in Newport he had been invited for a sail on Three Cheers by Tom Follett, who had sailed her in the race. Mike had been instantly attracted to the boat, although he had never sailed a multihull, and bought Three Cheers and immediately began to sail her in preparation for the next OSTAR. Lizzie had enthusiastically joined in the project and they had spent a great deal of time together on the boat during the ensuing four years. The previous summer they had made an extended cruise to the Hebrides and made a film about it which was soon to be shown by the BBC. Mike was a tough, former Royal Marines commando officer and a superb yachtsman, and his ability, in combination with such a fast and proven boat as Three Cheers, had made him one of the favorites to win the race outright, in spite of the fact that Three Cheers, at forty-six feet overall, was much smaller than the other favorites.

  I was attracted to Mike and Lizzie McMullen as I have rarely been attracted to any couple, their collective charm, enthusiasm, and total commitment to the race captivating me completely. Mike held forth on his opinions about the OSTAR and Lizzie goaded him from the sidelines; we talked and talked and laughed constantly. Lizzie was a very beautiful girl, and I complimented her on her nose. (There are leg men, etc., etc. I have always been a nose man.) She liked that, and it became our private joke.

  We eventually continued the party in the bar of the Royal Western, and by the end of the evening I counted them as close friends, difficult as that may be to explain. For ten days I would see them constantly, then I would not see them again.

  Angela Green of The Observer arrived to set up the press office, and we began to see a great deal of each other, often meeting Mike and Lizzie in the club for drinks and another discussion of the race.

  Harry had flown back to Ireland the day after our arrival, and now O.H. had to leave, too, so I was on my own. I greatly envied those entrants who seemed to have whole staffs of people to fetch and carry and bolt things onto their boats. Even some of the smaller boats had vans full of gear and teams of friends, relatives, or professionals working on their problems. Ann was coming down the Thursday before the race, but until then I would have to get help where I could find it. Robert Hughes, in addition to servicing Fred, was most helpful with stowing my food, and Ian Radford, who was in the marina aboard his entry, Jabuliswe, and who was much readier than I, was very helpful. The marina staff did what they could, and Alec Blagdon loaned tools from his boatyard, even though I did not have to take Harp there for anticipated repairs. But by the end of the week, although a great deal had been accomplished, my list of things to do did not seem any shorter, and Harp would have to be moved into Millbay Docks on Monday night, along with all the other entries, to undergo her three inspections—one for water and stores, one for safety equipment, and one for structural soundness and suitability of gear. She would also have to be inspected by the handicap committee, and the gear lever of her engine would be sealed, so that the engine could be driven only in neutral, for battery charging.

  In addition to the list of things I had planned to do in Plymouth, new problems kept cropping up: first, the hydraulic drive problem, then the engine’s electrical system. An electrical engineer came aboard and immediately found the problem which had caused my batteries to discharge: one of the battery wires had been led across part of the engine’s exhaust system which, when it got hot, had burned through the insulation of the wire, causing a short circuit.

  On Saturday night Angela and I invited Mike and Lizzie McMullen to come aboard Harp for drinks. They were tied up until later in the evening, so Angela and I had dinner at Bella Napoli, which was becoming a sort of culinary headquarters for everybody, and went back to the boat to wait for them. They were late, and as we were sitting below having a drink, we heard a commotion from across the marina. I stuck my head through the hatch and looked around. Two pontoons away a large group of dark figures was gathered around another boat, some of them pounding on the coach roof, others
pumping up and down on the bowsprit, pitching the boat fore and aft. I heard someone shout above the din, “Aha! We know what you’re at!” I went back below, laughing, and told Angela that some poor bastard across the way was having either his sleep or his amorous activities disturbed by his friends.

  A few moments later I heard hushed puzzled voices on the pontoon next to Harp and stuck my head out again to see what was up. Mike and Lizzie and half a dozen other people were standing there, trying to figure out where Golden Harp was. Forgetting that Harp was an Irish entry, they had asked at the marina office for the American boat and had been directed to Catapha, whose skipper, David White, had been rudely awakened by a great deal of noise and commotion. “What really worried me,” Mike said, as they all tumbled below and found seats, “was how big that guy was.” Andrew and Roslyn Spedding, close friends of the McMullens’, had come along, together with David Hopkins and Paul Weychan, designer and builder of Quest, a fast-looking trimaran which would be sailed by John deTrafford. There were a couple of other people jammed into Harp as well, but in the ensuing joking and laughing I forgot their names. Andrew Spedding had sailed in the last OSTAR, and was one of the scrutineers who would be inspecting Harp in Millbay Docks. I tried to keep his glass full.

  At one point in the evening I remember Mike remarking, “There’s a lot of luck involved in this race.” It was a comment I had not heard anyone else make, and I would have occasion to recall it later.

  book four

  Twenty-three

  Countdown

  MONDAY. I spent the morning doing small jobs on the boat. The marina mechanic, Ted, came and changed the engine’s water pump, which had been leaking, and installed a new Jabsco electric bilge pump.

  Ian Radford volunteered to come with me on the tow to Millbay Docks and help me berth Harp there, which might be tricky with no engine and so many boats about. Ian is a young physician who had been practicing in Zululand and who had done a stint performing heart surgery with Christiaan Barnard in South Africa. He had accepted a new job in Miami, Florida, and was emigrating the hard way, via the OSTAR. A cheerful soul, Ian was always ready to lend a hand with no more recompense than a cold beer or two … or three.

  As we were waiting for the towing vessel to come for us, Lizzie trotted up, a bottle of whisky in each hand, and invited us to come for a look at Three Cheers. The lovely, primrose-yellow trimaran was tied up at an outer pontoon of the marina, where she had just been blessed by the family vicar. The bottles of booze were gifts from friends who had turned up for the ceremony. Nigel Lang of Galadriel, one of the little Contessa 26s in the race, joined us, and we spent a pleasant half hour aboard as Mike, with obvious pleasure and pride, gave us a Cook’s tour of the boat. I had only been on one or two tris, and I was fascinated as Mike explained the modifications he had made which would make her an even faster boat than when Tom Follett had sailed her. I lifted an upside-down bucket in the cabin and found a small ham-type shortwave radio transmitter. He was keeping the bucket over it, Mike explained, because he had not had time to get a license for it, and anyway, he would only use it in emergencies. Nigel remarked on the absence of stanchions and guardrails on the boat, but Mike pooh-poohed the idea, saying he thought they were unnecessary.

  We finished our tour and Ian and I invited Lizzie to stop by Harp for a glass of sherry on her way home, since she was passing the boat, anyway. Lizzie, who had been fascinated with all the little comforts on Harp compared to the austerity of the lightweight Three Cheers, rolled her eyes and said she’d just love to come and see my central heating and listen to my stereo again. I said she could snuggle up to my central heating anytime, and as we left Mike shouted after us, “You watch that fellow. I don’t trust anybody who has central heating and stereo on his boat!” We left Three Cheers, Lizzie giggling, and strolled along to Harp. We had sat and chatted for only a minute when the towing vessel turned up, and we had to cast off. As Lizzie jumped ashore we agreed that Angela and I would try and meet them at the club later that evening for dinner. “Don’t forget to bring your nose!” I shouted after her as she ran toward the car park, still clutching the whisky.

  She laughed and waved the bottle. I was looking forward to spending another evening with the McMullens.

  John, the marina’s bosun, towed us slowly around to Millbay, and as the gates were not yet open, we had an opportunity to circle and get a close look at Club Méditerranée. From the water she seemed even more massive, with her four tall masts, enormous deckhouse, and huge windcharger propeller aft. Alongside her, Golden Harp looked about the same size as the little Avon dinghy we were towing looked alongside Harp. As we waited for the car ferry from France to dock and the Millbay gates to open, other yachts began to congregate in the area, and by the time the gates opened a dozen or more boats of all sizes were there, this being the final deadline for entering the docks without incurring a time penalty.

  Inside, Captain Terence Shaw, former secretary of the Royal Western, who was in charge of docking arrangements, directed us to a berth alongside Pawn of Nieuwpoort, being sailed by the Belgian entrant, Yves Anrys, and Achille, whose skipper was the young Frenchman, Max Bourgeois. Terence Shaw, white-bearded and very salty-looking, did not need a megaphone to issue his instructions, and skippers disregarded them at their peril. Soon, Nigel Lang, in Galadriel, and young Simon Hunter, in Kylie, another Contessa 26, were tied up outside us, making a raft of five boats, with Achille closest to the concrete dockside.

  Behind us were the two Chinese lugsail schooners, Ron Glas (which is Gaelic for “gray seal”), sailed by Jock McCleod, a Scot, and Bill King’s old boat, Galway Blazer II, now owned by Peter Crowther, who is just a bit mad. Also there was Angus Primrose in a Moody 33 of his own design, Demon Demo, soon joined by Chris Smith in the tiny Tumult, only twenty-two feet long.

  Millbay Docks was now home to nearly every boat that would start, and the whole place took on a festive air that completely changed the ordinarily drab appearance of the place. Angela and her Observer press office were there; Camper & Nicholsons and M. S. Gibb were sharing a portabuilding, and Brookes & Gatehouse were located in a trailer nearby. All the famous boats from past races were there: Jester, the Chinese lugsail folkboat which had been sailed in every OSTAR, first by Blondie Hasler and later by Michael Richey; Tahiti Bill, Bill Howell’s cat; Vendredi Treize, the 128-foot giant of the last Race, now called ITT Oceanic; Cap 33, formerly a French trimaran, now sailed by an American from Boston, Tom Grossman. Manureva, in which Alain Colas had won the last Race, was to have been sailed by his brother, but had lost a float and would not compete.

  Lizzie and Mike McMullen.

  Three Cheers under full sail.

  Among the new boats were Kriter III, a seventy-foot catamaran built as British Oxygen, winner of the Round Britain Race when sailed by Robin Knox-Johnston (beating Mike McMullen in the much smaller Three Cheers by less than an hour); Pen Duick VI, Eric Tabarly’s boat, built to be sailed in the Round-the-World Race by a crew of fifteen, now being sailed by Tabarly alone; Galloping Gael, a boat designed to the maximum limit of the Jester class and sailed by an Irish/Canadian/American, Mike Flanagan; FT, also designed to the maximum of the smallest class and sailed by David Palmer, who seemed certain he would take the class prize; Spaniel, a hitherto unknown Polish entry, with a bucket seat and automotive steering wheel in her tiny deckhouse; five identical boats designed by Marc Linski, a Frenchman; and four identical thirty-two-foot trimarans designed by Dick Newick especially for the race, one of them sailed by a close friend of Ron Holland’s, Walter Green, an American.

  With the withdrawal of Great Britain III and Manureva, only seven boats were entered in the largest group, the Pen Duick class. One of the most interesting was a sixty-two-foot trimaran with a truly vast sail area, Spirit of America, sailed by Mike Kane, who claimed his boat to be the fastest multihull in the world. The medium-sized Gypsy Moth class had considerably more entrants, but by far the largest was the Jester class, with about nin
ety boats, most of them privately owned, nonsponsored boats like Harp.

  Living conditions not being in the category of wonderful in Millbay Docks, I moved into a hotel until the start. On Monday night Angela and I went to a party given by Tom Grossman of Cap 33 and met a number of other entrants. Although we knew each other by sight, this was my first meeting with Mike Kane. He was reputed to be a bit cocky about his boat and his chances, and with a few drinks under his belt he was in rare form, talking about the incredible speeds the Lock Crowther–designed tri could reach and how well proven she was. We lingered a bit too long among the congenial company at Tom’s party and missed Mike and Lizzie at the club.

  (left) “No pictures, please.” Mike Kane of Spirit of America.

  (right) Tahiti Bill Howell.

  *

  TUESDAY. The hydraulic engineer rang and said that Hydromarine would reluctantly supply the needed replacement unit, but that they were insisting he come back and install it. I cringed at the cost, but I agreed. I spent the morning rounding up bits and pieces of gear, including two white fishing floats which would have to be painted black to conform to a last-minute rule that each yacht carry two black balls hoisted when the boat was under self-steering with no one on deck, a concession to the criticism from Yachting World. I was doing this job when the first of the scrutineers, Walter Venning, arrived aboard Harp. “Come aboard,” I said. “I was just painting my balls black.” Then from behind him appeared his girlfriend, Sally, the other scrutineer. I think I blushed.