Eight degrees south and the day two hours – a-coming. The interval was passed on deck in the silence of expectation, the customary thrill of landfall heightened by the strangeness of the shores that were now approaching. Slowly the Marquesas took shape.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
‘How’s our little friend this morning?’
‘Hasn’t moved and I am rather worried about him. Still won’t take any nourishment. Tried him with some different crumbs this time, and a little water, but not interested. Just sat close to me when I went up forward to be with him.’
A few days out from Academy Bay our visitor had, literally out of the blue, made a landing on our foredeck, quite unafraid and seemingly exhausted. Over the next few days it became part of our world and the focus of our attention. We wished we could have done something for it but recognized nature was having its way with one of its own. There was no place for us in that world, apart from providing a place of rest. To our unesoteric eye it could have been a member of the finch genus, a land bird, in which case the longer-term prognosis was not good. If our identification was correct, the little bird had been blown downwind on the trade wind, against which it would not have had the strength to get back home again. The nearest attainable refuge lay in the Marquesas over 2,000 miles away down to leeward. Too far for any chance of survival, we feared.
Then one morning came the inevitable announcement.
‘He has gone! At daybreak, when I went forward to have a look, there was no sign.’
We surprised ourselves at the sadness we felt. Life at sea was so simple, so uncluttered by the trappings that are integral with shoreside living in the hurry, hurry world of today, that the simplest of events like this was not just a basic, matter-of-fact experience. It meant more. Part of the life we were living had gone.
If our companion had indeed been a native of the Galápagos, it would have explained why it would sit with us showing no concern. The birds, like all of the wildlife of the archipelago, with so little exposure to predators, including the human kind, had no fear. There had been a link between us. We were both essentially land animals, albeit from an originally aquatic ancestry, and as such out of our depth, literally, in surroundings totally alien to us. We were the minutest of specks sitting on top of an enormous volume of water at the bottom of which was an unknown world, completely devoid of light and occupied by creatures beyond anything we could imagine. Beneath us were depths of 35,000 feet or more, 5,000 feet greater than the height of Everest. The means of support for the continued existence of one bird and two men were so vulnerable and so insignificant in such a panorama that the thought of sinking down through this vast abyss to total black oblivion was frightening to contemplate.
Progress from Academy Bay had been painstakingly slow, with the lightest of winds from east of south bringing with them slight seas which had provided a stable platform for our companion. Las Encantadas had kept their hold on us. They evidently did not want us to leave their shores, as they were to demonstrate. Tern came close, far too close for comfort, to leaving her remains on them. It was a replay of the not infrequent scenario of no wind and no engine. Now into January, the Galápagos climate was entering the wet, warm season, with a lightening of the trade wind wafting through the islands and with the currents swirling amongst them, being subject to change in their general drift. At this time of year the usually dominant Humboldt Current, or if one prefers it the Peru Current, is upset by a strong flow coming down from the Gulf of Panama. The net effect of these influences is to create uncertain conditions for sailing. Such was our experience as we attempted to clear the southern, broken, rock-bound shoreline of Albemarle Island, known today as Isabela. After a night of uncertain winds, conspicuous for their absence much of the time, we had ended up largely at the mercy of the current. We tried falling back on the engine. It started, stopped, started again, then went into a sulk, evidently not happy with the state of health of its fuel system, once again contaminated with paraffin. We let it rest in peace to enjoy its sulks.
Come the morning, Brattle Island, otherwise known as Tortuga, off the south-eastern coast of Albemarle, was close aboard, with the width of clear water between us closing at an alarming rate. The wind had chosen to leave us completely. Back to the engine once more, and now with a sense of considerable urgency pressing down upon us. Repeated flushings through of the fuel system brought no response. The sea, reaching up to the foreshore, which was now looming perilously close, was too deep to anchor. Our only resource left was to get the dinghy, lashed upside down over the skylight, over the side to try to pull Tern clear. About this we were not too optimistic, in view of the strength of the current, and a sense of desperation was now starting to envelop us. It was at this moment that the witch, in whose dominion these bewitched islands lay, relented and let us go. A gentle breeze rippled across the completely smooth surface of the sea and we gathered way. We were free from Las Encantadas.
The road to the Marquesas now safely opened up clear ahead, we hove to for a swim to reinvigorate and de-stress ourselves. Around us were whales blowing, paying no attention at all to us – two completely different planetary species at peace with each other, with no sense of concern in either party and each species totally to itself.
In the early hours of the following morning we were treated to a heavenly extravaganza – a total lunar eclipse. It was an unexpected delight as The Nautical Almanac does not list the phenomenon, it being of no particular navigational interest. The ephemeris devotes a couple of pages to solar eclipses but not those for the moon, so it came as an enjoyable surprise to watch the event unfold. The setting was perfect. Clear skies, uncontaminated by artificially induced light pollution, which we would have had if we had been onshore, with a smooth surface to the sea reflecting the brilliant shining path of the moon beaming towards us. From our grandstand view we watched the slow progression in sharp relief of the Earth’s shadow across the amazingly brilliant surface of the full moon. As it did so, the shining white surface gave way to a warm, copper glow covering the lunar face. Then slowly the process was reversed, as the shadow moved on and the brilliance of the moon started to emerge again as the startlingly bright arc of the rim reappeared.
Although we understood the scientific reason for what we were witnessing, we still had a feeling of awe. To have observed it without the benefit of this knowledge the spectacle would have been even more awesome, almost to the extent of fear. It is on record that Christopher Columbus ‘in 1504, landing in Jamaica and, wanting help from the natives, announced he would darken the moon. And, lo, it darkened.’ Western knowledge of astronomy was such that he knew a lunar eclipse was due, and the trick worked with dramatic effect.
Thursday 21 January Noon OP 02° 00'S 93° 40'W. Course 235°C. Weather: Bright and sunny. Very hot. Sea: Calm. Wind: Light S. Day’s run: 35 M.
Ship under all plain sail plus balloon foresail, Yankee jib and main topsail.
Wind has been tricky all day, mainly S or SSE and very light. The rising and setting of the sun kills it and it takes several hours before there is any sign of it returning.
Big haircutting operation in the forenoon. Peter seems better at it than I but fortunately we can’t see our rear views.
Attacked, or so it seemed, by orca whales in the afternoon, one under the counter and two under the bows. No impact but quite alarming. Considered possibility of starting the engine to frighten them off but decided this might have made matters worse, the sudden noise making them cross.
Trade wind clouds about. With luck we may be entering a new phase in the passage. They are what we want.
Obtained a time signal at supper time from the BBC with very clear reception. Never know with our radio. Tends to the temperamental and like the engine has spells of the sulks.
Apart from the lack of wind the evening was perfect. The sun on setting left a copper sheen on the surface of the sea with the whole western sky a gentle, light shade of pink. Then the moon came up with a brilliant path across the rippled water stretching up to and over us, lighting up everything in and around the boat like day.
The following day, despite the wind encouragingly picking up to a moderate S by E, which lifted our day’s run to 110 miles, our way of life took a turn for the worse. Peter had a particularly bad attack of asthma. This affliction tended to come on without warning and completely laid him low, leaving him with no option but to attempt to find refuge in his bunk. This meant I had to engage full-time in the sailing of the boat. During the periods I could get her to sail herself I would grab catnaps, and when this gave inadequate sleeping time it would be necessary to heave to with the helm lashed. I could then benefit from longer spells of essential, uninterrupted sleep. Fortunately, we were still under fore-and-aft rig, with weather and sea conditions helpfully reasonably benign.
Although Peter had come provided with medication, he found the only really effective treatment was fasting and resting with plenty of fresh air. This meant he could not get any real relief in his bunk and he had to get out on deck to take up a position on the foredeck with his back against the mast. Here, with brief spells back in his bunk when exhaustion overtook him, he coped with his misery for five long days. He was in great distress but never complained, and I admired enormously how well he handled it all. However, the strain was taking its toll on both of us.
Sunday 24 January 2000 Peter still bad with his asthma and myself quite worn out, with a headache from lack of sleep.
Hove-to on the port tack. Crew of Tern II turned in with an attempt to get some sleep.
We were over the worst as next day saw an improvement all round. Peter was coming out of the attack, so much so he picked up his watch again. This in itself speeded up the recovery process, as throughout his ordeal he had hated not pulling his weight. Although the wind did not correspondingly improve its performance, remaining stubbornly light in the SSE, our day’s run managed to struggle up to 95 miles. However, we were still not back to the good life.
Tuesday Wind dropped during the night and we had the usual accompaniment of the sound of jerking sails and slatting gear. These calm periods are such a curse, making us feel so helpless. Peter takes it all so well, which is so much to his credit as his asthma is still hanging on, but I am afraid I lose control and just about get beside myself with irrational rage and frustration. Perhaps tiredness has something to do with it.
Three days later it all looked so different.
Friday 1700 All’s well, wind freshening from SSE. Days’ runs have risen now to around 130 miles. Our spirits have risen accordingly.
Passed the first 1,000 mile position and somewhat of no particular relevance crossed the magnetic equator at the same time.
Monday 01 February A landmark day. Crossed the halfway line, going off the American chart Sheet 1 of the Pacific Ocean, which had been showing on it our departure point of the Galápagos. Changed over to the Admiralty Pacific South East sheet which brought up the Marquesas Islands and lost the Galápagos. Big boost to morale to see our objective now on the chart ahead of us and getting closer as the daily position plottings march towards it.
Dropped the fore-and-aft working rig of main and headsails. Hoisted the squaresail and raffee. Drawing well with the wind continuing to back further to east of south. The trades are now upon us and very welcome they are to.
Served a tot of rum (perhaps a little heavy-handed) to all hands.
At the end of the week there occurred another memorable day but for an altogether different reason. I fell overboard.
Friday 05 February Noon OP 06° 57'S 121° 40'W. Weather: Bright and sunny. Very hot. Short breaking sea from SE. Wind: Moderate ESE.
Course 260° C. Day’s run 130 M. Ship under squaresail and raffee.
The day had started well enough with ‘hands to bathe’ dunking from the end of the bowsprit, always an enjoyable refreshing treat. In the afternoon it was pleasant sailing. Peter was soundly asleep below and I was having an easy time on the tiller with the boat holding a steady course, marred only by the occasional lurch down to leeward. The wind being broad on the quarter, the boat’s motion running before these south-east trades was not so subject to the incessant rolling we had endured in the north-east trades. Life was, as a result, more congenial on deck and below. Tern was no longer throwing water over the helmsman, and the watch below was getting more restful sleep.
Responding to the call of nature, and lashing the tiller, I went forward to attend to that call. Leaning my shoulder against the after lee shroud left both hands free for the operation. This was the moment for one of those occasional lurches to happen. My shoulder slipping off the shroud, I found myself in slow motion pitching head first into the water sluicing along the topsides. Landing flat on the water, I twisted and tried to swim back to catch hold of the gunwale, but it was just out of reach and moving fast past my outstretched hands. Now left swimming off Tern’s rapidly receding stern, the gap widening fast between me and my sole life support system, the realisation undramatically flooded over me, pragmatically and quite matter of fact, that I was going to drown. It was as if I were just a witness to a scene of which I was not part. I was calling out to Peter but I knew that, snugged down, deeply asleep in his sleeping bag, he would not hear me over the sound of wind and rushing water. It was at that moment I remembered the ‘fish’. Trailing for some way astern of the boat was the thin plaited line that held at its end a metal, finned rotator, the fish, which in turn rotated the line to give a reading on a dial mechanism mounted on the boat’s stern, the whole device being known as Walker’s Patent Log. Its function was the determination of distance run through the water. It was to save my life. My only hope now was to get across to where the log line was trailing and hang on to it. I thought the line might possibly take my weight but I was not sure if the mounting on the deck would be able to accommodate the sudden shock of my deadweight abruptly coming on to it. I also had to be quick to catch the line running out to the fish before the whole lot went past and disappeared ahead, taking my only hope of survival with it. I made it. Letting it slip through my hands, I slowly tightened my grip on the twisting line to avoid any sudden load as my weight came on it. Everything held, and I was now safe and once more connected with my sanctuary. Tern had been doing the best part of 6 knots when I went over the side, and although her speed had slowed with me in tow, the line was cutting into my hands and my head frequently dragged under water. The question wa: how long could I hold on until the boat wandered off course and stopped by eventually coming head-to-wind, thereby bringing the squaresail and raffee flat aback, or until such time as Peter woke up? By great good fortune I did not have long to wait. I told myself I could see, although most probably it was just wishful thinking, Tern starting to veer up to windward, and almost at the same time Peter appeared in the cockpit. I was saved. He said afterwards he did not know why he had woken from such a deep sleep. Perhaps it was a change in the boat’s motion as she had slowed with my load on her, or was it something else? He knew not what, he said, but I suspect he had a private conviction. He was, I knew, a believer, possessing a strong faith. Unlashing the tiller, he brought the boat to the wind and laid the sails to the mast.
Slowly hauling me in, hand over hand, he got me under the counter and lowered a bight of rope over the side such that, with his help, I was able to drag myself over the toe rail on to the afterdeck. Neither of us said anything. Peter got Tern sailing again and whilst I climbed out of my dripping gear he broke out the rum bottle.
It was only some time later that Peter spoke of his shock when he emerged into the cockpit and, looking round, saw no one. He felt so desperately alone until he saw me way astern being towed, half submerged but still part of his existence.
Next day we passed the ‘last thousand to go’ mark. The wind had inconveniently hauled round to ENE and become lighter, creating the conditions for an unwelcome return to rolling and an unstable platform which reinforced the need to heed the lesson of the day before. Belatedly we now rigged waist-high lifelines along the sidedecks and, moreover, agreed that in future, when alone on deck, we would not leave the cockpit without tying a line around our waists with the tail secured to a nearby fitting on deck. We were two chastened men. We were more or less to obey this agreed discipline from then onwards, but to this day I remain unconvinced about the merits of the present-day practice of religiously ‘hooking on’ whenever one sets foot on deck in the open air. Safety first in the modern world is all pervading, with life jackets, lifelines and deck jackstays integral with going to sea in small boats. There is, however, a downside to this philosophy. In Tern, as we were not in possession of any of this gear, we would usually make sure we were following the old sea rule of ‘one hand for the ship and one for oneself’. We watched our step, literally, when moving about the deck whilst engaged in ‘the ordinary practice of seamen’, in the words of the ColRegs. The danger is one can become careless if there is a feeling of false security fostered by the wearing of safety gear. An element of overconfidence can be engendered.
However, in our real-life man-overboard situation I had certainly been too relaxed and paid the price accordingly. It is food for thought, though, that if I had been wearing a harness and lifeline, the chances are I would have still ended up in the sea before the lifeline had taken up its slack as I pitched over the low guardrail. I probably would then have drowned by being dragged under because of the high speed of the boat. An interesting scenario, this. In this hypothetical situation, assuming I had been able to release the lifeline or myself from it, or alternatively unbuckle the harness, I would still have drowned, the boat sailing on without me. The moral, of course, is not to become overconfident by putting too much reliance on safety aids. This includes lifejackets. We did not carry these in Tern, so there was no debate about whether or not to wear one. The latest designs of these suitable for the leisure market are light and unobstructive to the wearer’s free movement, so much so that in recent times there have been campaigns by the RNLI and others, pushing for lifejackets to be worn at all times when afloat and, heaven forbid, this could even become law. It could be argued that this is a somewhat dubious practice to foster. It is reactive rather than proactive, in that it is a safety measure applicable to the wearer who has fallen over the side rather than focussing on the need not to fall over in the first place. The dangerous inference is that all one has to do is to wear a lifejacket and all will be well. On the contrary, the emphasis should be ‘prevention is better than cure’ as the guiding principle. Even if we had had lifejackets on board, I doubt if we would ever have worn them. That was not the way we saw things in those days. Safety was not the god it has now become.
If I had, in fact, been lost overboard, Peter would have been presented with a major dilemma over what action to take. Initially there was the psychological hurdle to overcome of coming to grips with the situation and adjustment to the realization he was completely alone. He would then have to think calmly through the recovery steps he should take. Crucial decisions, obviously, but ones that had to be devoid of panic. First he had to get the boat in a state able to be sailed back up to windward again. This would have involved dropping the raffee and brailing up the squaresail. Then he had to get the engine started to begin heading back whilst he set the fore and aft sails so he could beat back against the trade wind, progress under engine alone being severely limited. To get the mainsail hoisted it would first be necessary to get the sail cover off, this having been put on to protect the sail from the weather over the weeks at sea whilst out of use. Next would be the task of resetting the working jib, which had been taken off and stowed down below. With the boat now back under control he had to try to determine her position, as she would have been blown some way from the original position during all this time. He needed to know this to determine the mean track to sail back along the reciprocal of the course we had been steering at the time of the misadventure. Not knowing the time when this had occurred, he had, however, no real idea where I was in all that empty space of water.
The decision now to be addressed was whether to persist with the reciprocal course tactic or to undertake what can be described as a ‘square search’. Again a crucial decision, bearing in mind that Peter was having, entirely on his own, to do everything: sail the boat, navigate and concentrate on the visual search. Because it was not possible to proceed directly back into the wind along what he estimated the reciprocal course to be, Peter would have to follow a zigzag path, beating to and fro across the target mean track. To have done this whilst keeping a check with any accuracy on his changing position would have been almost impossible. The alternative, and more precise, approach was to embark on the square search. In the end, this would have been more likely to be successful, but correspondingly more difficult to execute, even for a fully crewed craft, let alone a single-hander. What would be entailed was first to make a best guess where the victim might be, then, having assessed one’s maximum range of vision, establish a search area in the shape of a square box around this possible position. Along the sides of this box the boat is sailed in ever increasing parallel legs, covering a wider and wider area, until hopefully the person in the water is sighted. The underlying objective is to avoid wasting crucial time by repeatedly sailing over the same ground. The difficulties for Peter in achieving any degree of precision with this method would have been formidable. Apart from anything else, a head in the water, even with only the slightest of seas running and relatively smooth water, is a very tiny object indeed to see, especially when being sought from the deck level of a small boat.
Whatever practice Peter had followed, in the end, with fading hope of success, the ultimate decision would be how long to keep searching. Eventually he would have had to decide when to give up and turn back onto our original course. For the rest of his life he would have been beset by nagging, dreadful doubt. Had he failed me by abandoning the search too soon? Should he have continued just that little longer? All hypothetical, perhaps, but it could well have happened.
A similar misfortune had overtaken that redoubtable character, Bill Tilman, ‘mountaineer, sailor and one of the great explorers of this century’, whilst on passage to Montevideo in 1966 in Mischief, his Bristol Channel pilot cutter. In Mischief Goes South he tells of the awfulness of losing a man over the side.
‘Coming on deck at 7.40am I found the ship on course, the helm lashed, and no sign of the helmsman. It was hard to believe but it did not take long to satisfy myself that David, who had the watch from 6am to 8am, was not on board. After a hasty look in the peak, the galley, and the cabin I gave the alarm, turned out all the hands, and gave the order to gybe. In a few minutes we were sailing back ENE on a reciprocal course with all the hands up the shrouds scanning.
We soon noticed that the patent log had stopped rotating, and on hauling in the line we found this had broken about two-thirds of its length from the counter. It is by no means unusual to lose a rotator; on the present voyage we lost two. Either it is bitten off by a shark or a porpoise, or the line frays at the point where it is attached to the rotator. But the line is less likely to break or be bitten through at any other point, accordingly we assumed that it had broken when David grabbed at it, or even later when his weight on it had combined with a sudden lift and snatch of the counter to put too much strain on the line. We concluded that if the line broke when David grabbed at it, as seemed most probable, this must have happened about 6.15am (derived from the log reading), so that he had already been overboard for an hour and three-quarters. My heart sank. In so far as we were not shipping any water on deck the sea could not be called rough, but for man swimming it was far too rough. I did not see how a man unsupported by a lifebelt could long survive.’ It was a sobering thought that the patent log line was the same as the one we used in Tern.
They did not find him, having searched for 12 hours until it got dark. This was in a fully crewed boat, with enough persons available to scan the water continuously, handle the boat and navigate. What chance was there in our situation for Peter on his own? There was also, of course, the small matter of sharks in both situations.
On arrival at Montevideo, Tilman reported the fatality to the British Consul and had no problems with the local authorities or the press. There was no official enquiry, presumably because he had witnesses to confirm his account. Peter, however, with no corroborative evidence to hand, would have come under close scrutiny and, in the face of inevitable suspicion, be unable to prove his innocence of wrongdoing. All of this would have added immeasurably to his distress.
Life moved on. We were, as it was soon to turn out, about to have another crisis on our hands, almost literally. We ran out of toilet paper. I took this somewhat personally, as it could have been construed as a reflection on my stores planning, but in fact it was easy to flush out the reason for the shortage and to get to the bottom of it. So why had it happened? We had restocked in Cristóbal at the commissary, and of course, the toilet tissue on the shelves there was of American manufacture. Tissue was the right description, being appreciably less robust than the British dreadnought variety. Americans, it would appear, preferred the softer touch. Knowing how many rolls we had consumed during the Atlantic passages, I had restocked accordingly for the next legs. After changing over to American stocks the usage rate rose dramatically, so much so that whilst we were still some way out at sea our stock was wiped out, so to speak.
What to do? We were to find there was more to a book than just reading it. Tern being an easy boat to steer, full concentration on the tiller was not needed much of the time, which enabled us to develop the practice of reading and steering at the same time, with only the occasional look up to check on what the boat was up to. When the toilet tissue issue came upon us we were reading Compton MacKenzie’s The East Wind of Love. Peter and I tended to have similar tastes in literature and would read the same book. Part of the watch changeover routine was the handover of the common book, albeit a little soggy at times, to the ongoing helmsman. MacKenzie’s work was ideal, with the pages of the right size, soft but strong and easily removed, the book getting progressively thinner as we sailed on. The covers being hardback they were not used, it being mutually agreed they were ‘not fit for the purpose’. I am sure the author would have been gratified that his creation was being so widely distributed across the Pacific.
Most of the way across on this leg, life had been more comfortable than the rather trying periods we had experienced on occasions when in the NE trades. On the Pacific run, much of the time the wind had been further round on the quarter, the boat steadier as a consequence with appreciably less of that aggravating rolling. The direct result of this was that the squaresail yard had not been sawing to and fro across the mast as it took up the give in its wire jackstay. The much reduced chafe was kept under control with leather strip binding and liberal applications of tallow. The main beneficiaries were, however, Tern’s crew, there being a greater measure of placidity in their lives as a result. There was an unexpected side effect of the permanent heel to starboard in the form of quite remarkable growth of weed along the lee topsides and extending well up onto the waterways. It was a mystery how this had managed to attach itself and stubbornly adhere to the smooth surface of the painted wood with the water flowing fast past it. The accumulation was quite dense and took some effort to remove when we were at anchor in the Marquesas.
Now well into the passage, we were enjoying pleasant conditions, and a typical log entry reads:
All around us is bright, winking phosphorescence. Much warmer now, the South Equatorial Current heating up as it sweeps west away from its origins in the Humboldt Current, which had been bearing all that cold water up from the Southern Ocean.
We were living in conditions akin to those for Thor Heyerdahl and his companions on Kon-Tiki as they drifted along on the same friendly current towards the Tuamotu Archipelago, the endgame for them. They had been only just to the south of us. He caught the moment in his inimical style in his The Kon-Tiki Expedition.
‘When night had fallen, and the stars were twinkling in the dark tropical sky, the phosphorescence flashed around us in rivalry with the stars and single glowing plankton resembled live coals. When we caught them we saw that they were little brightly shining species of shrimp.’
Also like them we had our retinue of those marvellous little creatures: pilotfish. They are about six inches long with zebra stripes, swimming in shoals just ahead of a shark’s snout, darting off when they see food. We had two of these little fellows in their football jerseys permanently swimming a few inches ahead of our stem, one above the other, maintaining perfect station on us regardless of any variations in our speed. They appeared to have an unshakeable belief that we were a shark, albeit of rather unusual form. They were always there, and what they did for food was a mystery. Perhaps from time to time they did go off to find a real shark, their natural support system, providing morsels for them after it had made a kill. On the passage across we had not seen much in the way of sharks, but the presence of the pilotfish indicated they were not far away. This left me wondering again about my fate if I had been left for any length of time in the sea after my earlier involuntary immersion. The thought was something I did not want to dwell upon.
Although sharks had not made their presence felt, other forms of more friendly marine life were keeping us company. Frigate birds had been appearing for some time, signifying land was not too far away. With their long, split tails and equally long, high-aspect-ratio wings, they were easy to identify as a breed, our best guess being that our particular companions were of the species known as ‘lesser frigate birds’.
Then, of course, there were the ubiquitous flying fish. They were also welcome visitors, as they had been in the Atlantic, in the NE trades, featuring regularly on the breakfast menu. Most mornings would see one or two at least lying on the sidedecks.
They were in a no-win situation, these nocturnal visitors. They had escaped the jaws of predators below the surface of the sea, only to end up between the waiting jaws of others on top of it.
As we closed the Marquesas the ‘even tenor of our ways’ gave way to more unfriendly conditions.
Sunday 14 February Sea rough. Wind fresh ESE to SE. Weather bright and sunny with heavy patches of cumulus. Day’s run 134 M. Under squaresail only.
Another rather boisterous night with the almost continuous roar of water in the scuppers and across the afterdeck. Sounds are much more pronounced when heard from below but it is certainly pretty wet on deck. If this wind stays steady expect to pick up Ua Huka early tomorrow morning. Nearly there!
Sure enough, next morning at 0330, shortly after I had turned in, Peter called me to exclaim with some excitement in his voice that he could see land. It was Ua Huka Island, clearly visible in the bright moonlight. A wonderful sight. I had been only too happy, for once, to climb out of my bunk to share with Peter the excitement of the landfall. It was our first glimpse of a South Sea Island, which added to the excitement. There is a romanticism about these islands which has endured over the years despite all the changes that have occurred, unfortunately mostly for the worst. In spite of it all, their exotic attraction remains, as does their beauty.
I felt satisfaction over our landfall. It had been navigationally accurate, confirming that the chronometer watch was not out from its estimated rate. Comparing an observed position with a fix on a piece of land of known position on the chart provides a very accurate check on the chronometer’s performance, and particularly so in our case, as it had been some time since I had been able to get a radio time check. It was a method I was to use more than once in the absence of any help from our temperamental radio. I had, however, been helped over the past few days by being favoured with good conditions for sight taking. The horizon was generally free of haze and the heavenly bodies readily visible, despite intermittent patches of immense cumulus cloud banks. Moreover, the platform for using the sextant was steadier than it had been in the Atlantic trades, the rolling being much more restrained. Conditions for astronomical observations were thus happily more user-friendly. With constant practice, my sextant skills had developed to the point where its use had become second nature, such that I knew instinctively when a sight was a good one or should be rejected. I had long before abandoned the textbook dictum when shooting the sun of taking several sights and averaging them out on a straight line drawn on graph paper. I was at sea, not in a classroom. Another classroom pearl of wisdom on using a sextant concerns making a correction to the observer’s height of eye above the sea to accommodate wave and swell heights. In theory, such an adjustment should be made to ensure the correct altitude is obtained, as its reading otherwise would be too high. The rise and fall of the sea could vary between 8 feet in trade wind conditions and twice or more in a gale, thereby affecting the accuracy of the sextant shot. The prescribed procedure is to estimate the wave height from trough to crest and divide by two to give the mean height. This figure is then added to the observer’s height of eye, measured from the level of the sea around the boat when she is at rest. I found this all too complicated and not meaningful in practice.
Assessing wave heights at sea is notoriously difficult and a hit-or-miss guessing game at best. One reads yachtsmen’s desperate accounts of waves they have encountered, cheerfully claiming heights as much as 40 feet. Pure flights of fancy. This is hurricane stuff. I did not engage in best-guessing wave heights, preferring to be heavy-handed when applying the height-of-eye correction in the calculation for true altitude. I relied on ‘gut feel’ as to whether a sight was likely to be accurate or not. After all, if there is any run to the sea sextant accuracy, in a small boat, to give a position within the nearest mile or two is all that can be expected.
In partnership with the sextant the chronometer is central to the determination of longitude. As Henry Raper, in his monumental 1840 work The Practice of Navigation and Nautical Astronomy, expressed it: ‘The most convenient method of finding longitude is by comparison of the time at place with the time at Greenwich, as shown by the chronometer.’ The ‘time at place’ is the mean time of the observer deduced by computation from the altitude of the most appropriate heavenly body, be it sun, star or planet, or even the moon. Raper’s very detailed work, with its significant mathematical content, was the basis of the navigational method I had adopted, known as ‘longitude by chronometer’, using spherical trigonometry in its methodology.
The fact that Raper’s principles were still in practice in my time was indicative of the slow rate there had been in technological development in nautical astronomy, but in a few short years all that was to change dramatically with the invention of the satellite.
Several times on passage I had expressed concern to Peter that he really should know something about celestial navigation. This concern had resurfaced after my overboard misadventure and the possibility that I might not have got back on board again. He would have been faced with a problem in the event that I was unable to continue to function as the navigator, as his knowledge of the practice was virtually non-existent. He would have had to rely on dead reckoning – the flat Earth system, in effect – to know where he was going. He did not worry about this, however. There were two reasons, as far as I could see, for this lack of interest. In the first place he would inevitably, in due course, make a landfall somewhere. It was only a matter of time. When crossing the Atlantic there was ahead of us the vast length of the Americas, but, more precisely, short of them were the West Indies, a long chain of islands stretching north and south across a wide latitude spread. In the Pacific there was a similar spread of places to ‘hit’. The French Polynesian group of islands extend over a large area, with no great distances between each of them. Peter would have had as starting point my last plotted position, and the simple laying off of course and distance run from then onwards would have sufficed, more or less. I think, however, the more important reason was his inner conviction, his faith and his firm belief in the presence of a higher authority. He never paraded any of this but I sensed it existed. It was certainly manifested whenever we were in a place where he could attend a church service; this he invariably did. Whatever one’s feelings are about such matters, it is certainly true that those with faith have something going for them, a greater surety in life which is denied the ‘materialist’. Peter had this quiet confidence, whereas I had to rely on a piece of man-made clockwork.
By breakfast time we had the black bulk of Ua Huka abeam, starkly dominated by a high mountain range, down which deep valleys ran to the sea. Like its neighbours, the volcanic origins were very evident, witness to its violent birth. The island was the lead-in to Nuku Hiva, now dead ahead. Forty miles south of us lay Hiva Oa, where almost up to the last day or two of the passage I had considered stopping off, but from what I had read Nuku Hiva seemed the more appealing. Hiva Oa was the most fertile and populous island in the Marquesan group, but this in itself was not of particular interest. The principal village of Atuona had, however, attracted international attention to itself by being the last resting place of the French post-Impressionist painter, Paul Gauguin. He had lived in Tahiti for some years and ended his days in Atuona, dying in 1903 at the relatively young age of 55 from venereal disease, the scourge of the Pacific Islands. One had to wonder how much he personally had contributed to spreading this white man’s gift, given so generously to the Polynesians.
It was time to change from the trade wind square rig to the more manoeuvrable fore-and-aft rig. Brailing in the squaresail, and after setting jib, mainsail and mizzen, we entered the sweep of Hakapehi Bay on the south shore of Nuku Hiva, wherein lay the ‘fairest haven’ in the Iles Marquises.
Monday 15 February 1330 Anchored off the jetty in Taiohae Bay in 4 fathoms after a drifting match up the bay, the engine refusing to co-operate.
The log goes on to record the occasion of our arrival in this French outpost. It was to be our only contact on an official basis with what was to prove the most relaxed of bureaucracies, with the ensuing proceedings, short-lived, reduced to the point of non-existence.
Visited soon after our arrival by the doctor, Pierre Truc, and his wife Karin, plus the gendarme. It was evident our crawl up the bay had been viewed with much interest. Yachts were a rarity it seemed. Pierre and the gendarme were fulfilling their official roles of health and immigration respectively. It was the most glamorous inspection we have had by port authorities or likely to have. They are not normally that way inclined. Karin, Swedish, is lovely. Our perception was not coloured, of course, by having been at sea for a month with only each other to look at.
There was a surge coming in and we were lying beam-on, rolling heavily, which no doubt helped to bring official business somewhat abruptly to an end. Quite possibly there might also have been present a strong boat smell, of which we were unaware, and this would not have helped. Politely declining our offer of tea, the team took to their boat and our guests were soon ashore – thankfully, no doubt.
We got our heads down soon after this and slept for 15 hours with hardly a stir.