Recovery?

Poor wrecked Newlyn Maid motored back from St Ives into Hayle Harbour. She had suffered severe damage and now my question was should we decommission or repair? She went straight from a 12-month rebuild

 

to this:

Her good side!

We spent the next year putting her right again. The poor boat had done nothing wrong. On her last trip she had sailed confidently through tidal overfalls in a storm of the Lizard. OK the self-steering had disintegrated and the hatch had blown off – but she had continued on. Sailing back through a gale of Lands End we suffered a collision with a steel pole. Her rigging had failed. This was all fine. She could take it. People call it fun, I believe. Sadly, on the return trip round Lands End Tony was a very sick passenger who needed help. The boat didn’t need help and hadn’t deserved to be mugged. So we repaired her.

We rebuilt the damaged engine compartment partly filling the space with an additional 5 cubic feet of 2-part foam. A good portion of her internal volume is now flotation. Then we cut sections from the distorted deck and reattached it to the hull using fibreglass, epoxy, and carbon fibre. Outside carbon fibre tape further reinforced the join creating a go-faster stripe down her sides. We put additional pad-eyes around the deck for safety and decided not to replace the twisted stanchions and guide rails.

Her new carbon fibre go-faster stripe

 

Sea Trials Again

The Maid now had an extended anchor rode and a second sea anchor. We made efforts to adjust the junk rig for storms but the battens still tended to pop out of the front of the sail even in moderate local seas. After sea trials, I gave up trying to lash the battens in place. Drilling and tying the ends of the top two battens made sure they could not fall out and would maintain the shape of the sail.

We bolted two new engine mounts to the transom as overkill. I could switch to the old but reliable Seagull Silver Century if the main engine failed. Sixteen steel bolts held the new engine mounts against the hull but additional rubber shock absorbers and over-sized penny washers made certain they were secure. An extra set of oars was included in case the sail and both the motors were to fail. The final belt-and-braces option was Lachie a local former fisherman who kindly agreed to tow me back into the harbour (crossing Hayle Bar by sail is often not a sensible option).

Adrian Scott Stokes (1854–1935)

The first trip was a quiet sail round to Falmouth setting off with a particularly fine weather forecast. What could possibly go wrong?

Rescue and Hijack

This is the second half of the rescue story: the hijack and mugging.

Today We Learn That Big Boats Can Destroy Small Boats

We found ourselves waiting for the arrival of Sennen lifeboat rather than the fishing boat we had intended. Now we were at anchor, I set about tying away the sail and clearing the hatchway. The damaged sail and rigging filled half the cockpit and blocked the entrance to the cabin.

Getting Tony off the boat and into the lifeboat’s RIB was difficult. Tony was weak and unable to stand. The safety cables surrounding the deck were released to make it easier to get him over the side. Removing the safety wires had the effect of covering the deck with loose steel cable just waiting to trip someone up. With some difficulty we helped Tony out of the cabin. One on each arm we guided him into the RIB where he was caught and aided by the others. Rescue completed. I would rest, patch the boat up, and sail round to Hayle.

Attempted Bullying

I thanked the lifeboatman for his help with Tony and said we would now be on my way.

The lifeboatman sat down and asked

“Would you like a tow back to Newlyn.”

“No thanks. It’s not necessary.” I shook my head.

“Where were you going?”

“Hayle but I was going to divert to St Ives to get Tony home.”

“We’ll tow you to St Ives.”

“I don’t need a tow. The problem is resolved. It’s not necessary. I’ll make my own way. Thank you.”

“I don’t think they’ll let you go on by yourself.” The lifeboatman was making it clear he was in now control.

“There is no longer a problem. I don’t need or want a tow. Tony is off the boat.”  I wondered who “they” were and what made him think “they” had the authority to make the decision. There was also the need for them to give me a plausible reason.

Apparently, the lifeboatman had taken my giving him “permission to come aboard” to mean he could take over the boat. This is illegal. Presumably this level of arrogance comes from the local culture of the RNLI and how they are trained. They assume that they know better than other sailors and need to take control for the victims own good. It should be obvious that I have no complaint against this individual who seemed to be doing his best to follow inept instructions. The lifeboatman was good at being politely coercive.

The lifeboat had not formally taken control of the boat. His suggestions were clearly declined. Presumably the RNLI realise they have no legal, or moral, right to take charge of a boat without a clear and present danger. Even if they had such rights, they would need to be sure they had the necessary expertise to reduce the risk to people and property.  The lifeboatmen could have requested to take charge of Newlyn Maid rather than asking permission to board . Quite frankly, I would have refused. By now, I was of the firm opinion these people were semi-competent at best.

“We try to tow casualties to where they want to go. Would you prefer to be towed to St Ives or Newlyn?” He asked.

This was a clumsy attempt at giving a choice between two options while excluding others. It has a name Morton’s Fork and is a well know trap used by manipulative people. I shook my head at the idea that I would fall for such a clumsy trick. I wondered when I had become a casualty and why this guy thought I needed help. I did not.

“The casualty is off the boat. You are no longer needed.” I responded firmly.

The concept of No-means-No had not reached the lifeboatmen. Nothing I could say had any effect. They were going to give me a tow whatever I said. They had a fall back explanation: “It’s what we do.” This statement actually means nothing other than they repeat an action whether it is right or wrong. But superficially it appears to give them authority. They all seemed to use it. It was repeated when they ran out of explanations. They want to “rescue” your boat. You need to be saved from something, but they cannot tell you what exactly. Perhaps it’s the bogeyman. You have an objection? Forget it. It’s what they do.

Can you imagine a liner, tanker, or other large vessel being towed to port because one of the passengers became seasick and had been taken off the ship? Neither can I. By contrast, it seems that the RNLI often force so-called rescues on small boats. Their sailor victims are wary of being assailed for making a complaint about the rescue services. However, I am not intimidated. Never having liked bullies, I am quite happy to describe the process.

“The boat is at anchor and completely safe. You are no longer needed.” I stated firmly.

“I’ll just raise the anchor to save time when the St Ives lifeboat arrives.” He responded. It was that unsubtle. He seemed to think that his raising the anchor would make the boat unsafe and negate my objection. It did not.

He moved forward to raise the anchor. Notice that he had made the decision to raise the anchor and not asked permission. I suggested that if he really insisted on raising the anchor I should do it. It has a very long chain and there is no winch. It is difficult. I know how to do it. He declined.

The unstated message was he was in charge and would do whatever he wanted. I would not be allowed to do anything despite being skipper and responsible for the boat. There would be no stopping this “rescue” short of physically removing him from the boat.

Stuck

He started to lift the anchor and after a few feet realised the problem. He was stuck. Lifting an anchor on the end of 125 feet of chain was easy for the first few feet but became progressively more difficult, as muscles fatigued. Once again, I offered to do it. He said no. He told me that when the St Ives lifeboat arrived they would help him. However, he was obviously stuck. Realising his predicament he asked would I help him by putting the chain lock on to help hold the position of the anchor.

For the next few minutes I had a stubborn lifeboatman stuck on the bow of the boat. With intermittent rests he managed to pull up the anchor by himself, finishing sometime after the arrival of the St Ives lifeboat. In the first few seconds of his arrival, I watched the replacement lifeboatman from St Ives trip and kick apart the solar power connection, as he went forward to see what was happening with the anchor. The St Ives lifeboat were really good at wrecking boats.

The Tag Team

The RNLI have a reputation as volunteers going to the rescue of sailors whatever the weather. Most people do not realise that all sailors are required to provide assistance to a boat in trouble. If you are sailing in a Force 10 in mid-ocean and you get a Mayday you are expected to respond. If you are the nearest boat you have just “volunteered”, even if this means sailing through a hurricane. The thing that might stop you from responding is that you are trying to save your own boat and cannot risk the rescue. All ocean sailors have an obligation to do what the RNLI claim is their special remit.

Since they have no actual legal authority the RNLI have methods to demand and maintain control. The lifeboatmen played a tag team with the Sennen man leaving only after the St Ives man had boarded the boat. They were leaving no opportunity for me to prevent their “rescue” short of force. Their methods were transparent but justifying them is challenging.

I settled back to watch how the “experts” worked. Perhaps I could learn something. Perhaps we can all learn something from the events that unfolded.  There may be some readers who assume that the lifeboatmen had the expertise to assess the situation whereas I was in some way mentally deficient or incapacitated. They were stopping me from endangering myself. Really? Read on.

Swamping The Boat

The St Ives lifeboatmen asked me if there was somewhere to attach the tow rope. I thought this odd as there was a large cleat on the bow used for mooring. It was obviously strong enough for towing the boat. My mistake. Astonishingly, they did not know how to properly tow a small boat.

St Ives lifeboat set off towing Newlyn Maid. The lifeboatman on board the Maid insisted on holding the tiller. I had to sit in the hatchway looking backwards. Something was wrong. They were towing the boat at well above her hull speed. A 20 foot sailing boat has a hull speed of about walking pace. This was at least twice that speed. I tried to rationalise. They must know this is far too fast. They are experienced. It could be that they have an urgent need to get back. Perhaps they had a real emergency somewhere else. Giving the RNLI the benefit of the doubt in such situations is easy.

At this speed the boat was getting swamped. It would take weeks for me to pump out all the water which slowly made its way down to the bilges. The Maid had been through some heavy weather that had ripped away the self-steering and the hatch. Even adding the collision in a gale and the boat had not taken on water like this. She was built for bad weather not being towed at excess speed. Later I would find the St Ives lifeboat has a local reputation for towing too quickly and swamping small boats.

Splashes of cold sea water was occasionally going down the back of my floatation suit. I shrugged uncomfortably. The lifeboatman asked if I were alright. I told him I was and looked at him more closely. He face looked ghostly white and his eyes were red.

“Are you OK? You look like you’re getting seasick.” I asked sympathetically.

“No! I’m alright. Are you?”

The tone indicated that he was put out that I would make such a suggestion to a tough lifeboatman. I was their designated casualty.

“We take Sturgeon for seasickness. It works well.”

He then gave me instruction on how to prevent seasickness and not have problems in the future. I will use this to explain the problem of RNLI staff assuming they were experts and sailors obviously incompetent. A geeky confession. I am a pharmacologist and had discussed preventing seasickness with a senior medical doctor who specialised in marine expeditions, as well as checking independently with a pharmacist who helped local fishermen. Sturgeon is an antihistamine (cinnarizine) and was our second choice because of possible side-effects and interactions. Of course, the RNLI volunteer knew better. Presumably he thought he had superior knowledge because Tony had become sick while he slept and the adhesive on his anti-sickness patch failed. The lifeboatmen know best. Obvious innit?

Taking note of the speed and the apparent sickness of the lifeboatman I wondered if they were playing a practical joke on him.

“Why are they towing so fast. It must be twice the hull speed.”

“It’s what we do.” He said.

“Are you sure they don’t hate you and are just trying to make you sick.” I smiled.

“No.” He didn’t get my poor attempt at a joke and just looked puzzled.

The Motor Shakes Loose

Bang. The motor tilted and jammed solid in the outboard well. Towing us too fast was bound to cause problems before long. I could not get near the engine as it was behind the lifeboatman. He looked down at the motor.

“Didn’t you lock the motor? The motors got a lock on the side to hold it in place.” He said.

“Does it really? Show me.” I asked disbelieving his claim.

He searched for the lever.

“That’s odd.” he said. “I can’t find it. Must be somewhere else.”

In fact, the motor has a kick up mechanism for shallow water. If the propeller hits the bottom the motor tilts to prevent damage. In this case the force of the water from being towed at excess speed had triggered the mechanism. He tried to put the motor vertical again without success. As he moved away, the motor was shaken about and dislodged from its mount. Later I would find the boats substantial engine mount had also been broken. Bang, crash, wallop. The motor was being thrown around the outboard well. More bangs and crashes. He tried to hold it steady or put it back on its mount without success.

I looked at him accusingly and said that there was no need to wreck the boat. She had not done them any harm. At last, he told the lifeboat to slow down a little so he could put the engine back in place. Despite trying, he could not manoeuvre the engine back and said it had jammed in the well. Of course, I was not allowed to reposition the motor and prevent further damage.

“Do you have a rope so I can tie it up?” He asked.

I started down below quickly in the hope of saving the engine. Tony had placed his big floppy green rubber bucket full of sick at the bottom of the steps. In the confined space I stepped onto the side of the bucket and the largest volume of vomit I had ever encountered jetted up straight into my face. I was covered from head to toe in Tony’s vomit. I cursed, found some paracord, and went back on deck.

The lifeboatman tried tying up the motor and failed again. He would hold it a little more steady with his free hand for the rest of the journey. Later it took me just a few seconds to lift, mount, and secure the motor when I was eventually allowed near it.

The lifeboat gradually sped up again to something more than twice the hull speed. The motor was still rattling about but the lifeboatman’s grip damped the movement. At least there was some slight compensation from the increase in speed as the spray was removing Tony’s vomit…

Multiple Collisions

We were towed into St Ives harbour as it was going dark. Now safely back in harbour I thought that wasn’t as bad as expected. I had been suspicious when I realised that it would be the St Ives lifeboat that towed us in. We had lost all trust in them in our earlier encounter. Despite my misgivings, the Maid just suffered some swamping and damage to the motor and engine well. The damage was as unnecessary as the so-called rescue but not a real problem.

Foolishly, I thought I would shortly have my boat back and be away from all this domineering silliness. Then one of them decided to put the Newlyn Maid next to Smeaton’s Pier and it became utterly bizarre. They did several strange things while in the harbour and caused additional damage but I will just cover the main event.

St Ives Was Not A Safe Harbour

They tied Newlyn Maid very loosely to the side of the Mersey class lifeboat so she could not move away very far, say a 10 foot gap. I sat on the Maid puzzled by what they were doing. Some of their actions were hidden from me behind the collapsed sail while the lifeboat towered above. They appeared to be going to try to position the Maid next to the pier using the lifeboat rather than more sensibly with the RIB. How would they avoid crushing the little boat? Once again, perhaps I should pay attention I might learn something.

Then the lifeboat revved its engine pulled away from Newlyn Maid, until the ropes went taught, and then it turned and smashed into her side. With the first collision they kissed the Maid’s port quarter doing no damage. The little boat rocked and moved away from the impact. What on earth did they think they were doing now?

For the second collision some seconds later the ropes were adjusted and the lifeboat had moved forward a little when it smashed into the little boat. This impact bent a stanchion, a stainless steel bar for the safety railing, and split the deck from the hull with a loud crack as the fibreglass failed. The Maid tilted sideways again forcing me to hold on. I could feel the flexing of the hull and deck. The little boat was breaking up. This was crazy.

Then the ropes were readjusted again. Once again it backed off to the limits of the ropes, engine revving, another crash, another stanchion torn out and the deck hull joint damaged but further forward this time. Poor Newlyn Maid was pushed to the full extent of her restraining ropes. Her movement away from her attacker only acted to help position her for the next crushing blow. There was no way she could avoid the impacts.

The lifeboat moved forward a little more. Same routine. More engine revving, smash, the squeal from the next stanchion and another loud crack as her hull-deck join  failed.  They must have readjusted the ropes between each of the collisions to move forward to the next section of the poor little boat. Finally they reached the bow. The lifeboat smashed into the bow twice.

Stanchion Damage

Newlyn Maid was only saved from being written off because of the internal strengthening of the hull. We had reinforced the hull behind the forward bulkhead with glassfibre, diolen (similar to kevlar), and carbon fibre, all bonded with epoxy resin. Fortunately, care had been taken in reinforcing the hull-deck join. We had anticipated storms and possibly a collision at sea but not multiple impacts from a mad lifeboat in a harbour. The storms and a collision at sea had done some damage to the boat’s accessories but nothing that could not be sorted out quickly. By contrast, the crazy lifeboat would have completely destroyed Newlyn Maid without this extra reinforcement.

Her Good Side: Separation Of Deck From Hull Forward Of The Reinforcement Notice The Fracture Spreading Back

What did they do it for? Was it a mistake? Incompetence perhaps? We were safe in the harbour. If they insist on making stupid unnecessary rescues they could at least try not to destroy the boat before tying it up.

St Ives has a Mersey class lifeboat which displaces 14 long tons and has an immensely strong aluminium hull designed to resist collisions. It looks like this:

Imagine This Beast Being Crashed Repeatedly Into Tiny Newlyn Maid

The nearest analogy I have is someone deciding to park a Smart car in a supermarket car park by repeatedly smashing into it with a lorry. It was that stupid.

What were they doing?

We had found the Sennen crew were generally professional if unable to listen or take no for an answer. Tony found them very helpful and supportive. They did their job well right up to the point they insisted on continuing the rescue after the casualty was safe.

The St Ives boat crew were something else. I discussed the St Ives lifeboat’s behaviour and crashing into the Maid with a former member of the Sennen lifeboat crew. He was baffled.

“What did they do that for?” He asked.

“I have no idea.” I replied.

There are three possible explanations:

1. The lifeboat could not care less how much damage they caused. This is consistent with their overall attitude. They are “saving lives”. Being allowed a little sarcasm: damage – it’s what they do.
2. Just basic incompetence. They did not mean to do it. It was an accident. They did not realise their repeated crashing into the Maid was causing damage despite the screams of bending steel and loud cracking of fracturing fibreglass.
3. It was deliberate attempt to sink the boat. They were being vindictive.

None of these possibilities is good. The possibility that the damage was vindictive is hopefully untrue.

Remember the background. Newlyn Maid had been on the front page of the local newspapers as an entrant in the Jester Challenge. The St Ives RIB came out to attempt a “rescue”  the day she started sea trials for the Atlantic crossing. This was in St Ives Bay in perfect weather –  we were hardly out of the harbour. We were effectively given an ultimatum. We could be rescued with the stated reason being conditions were perfect and there was little wind. (Yes, the idea is insane.) Alternately, they would keep coming out in their RIB shouting at us and being obnoxious as described in an earlier post. We motored around Lands End at night to prevent them hounding us.

That first incident had taken away the opportunity to set the boat up in fine weather. The problems with the boat, such as having to do sea trials in a Force Stupid storm, can be traced back to that initial event; the fruit of a poisoned tree. Now they had got their forced “rescue” and trashed the Maid.

After the Maid’s so-called rescue the St Ives lifeboatmen who seemed to be in charge spoke to me as I was leaving for home.

“Sorry about the damage to your boat”. He was chuffed, full of himself, and grinning from ear to ear. Was it sarcasm? No, it wasn’t sarcasm.

What was that look, that tone?  Oh yes, I remember. It’s called gloating.

Update

The RNLI have apologised.

The St Ives Coxswain did not report that he had towed us under protest.  Apparently, the correct reporting procedure was not followed.  The lifeboat crew has now been briefed to ensure that they understand the need for this to happen.

The former Coxswain claimed that the forced tow and “rescue” had been dealt with locally. It was not. It was an illegal act!

The RNLI have now apologised that Newlyn Maid was damaged and that my experience of the St Ives Lifeboat crew was not a positive one.

They told me that the St Ives lifeboat station has gone through much change including an emphasis on improving the professionalism of the local volunteer team.  They are confident that should I interact with them again it would be a more positive experience.

The lifeboat has a new coxswain, following the retirement of the previous holder of the post.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Strange Kind of Rescue

One of the reasons for continuing this blog since I missed the 2014 Jester Atlantic Challenge was to provide a description of the experience. It really can be more difficult to get to the start than take part.

In my case, a series of events conspired to make the Jester impractical. There were some equipment failures in bad weather most notably the self-steering failure. Nonetheless, the most critical issues were my two dealings with the St Ives lifeboat.

Anyone reading the earlier posts will realise that I began with a very high opinion of the RNLI. Now the situation is more like the Curate’s Egg. I still have a the same high opinion of some sections, such as the Penlee lifeboat, and an exceptionally low opinion of others, specifically the lifeboat at St Ives. This post is about how easy it is to end up in an unwanted “rescue”. It is an explanation rather than a complaint and a call for the rescue services to improve their approach.

In our case, we did not want, or request, a rescue. Getting Sick Tony off the boat and back to land was clearly necessary. Using a lifeboat for the job was over the top and took money away from a local fisherman who would have got Tony home. Nevertheless, a lifeboat was an effective if highly inefficient solution, despite causing more problems than it solved.

Feynman’s Healthy Disrespect for Authority

Health and Safety

It is useful to start with an analogy. Imagine being out for the evening and a friend, Charlotte, has had too much to drink. The car tyre is flat, and the radiator has a leak, so you need to add some water. You decide to phone for a taxi to take Charlotte the inebriated one home, take a few minutes to fix the car, and then drive the short distance home yourself. You tell the telephone operator in passing what the problem is since you don’t have the phone number of the taxi.

The next thing you know is a state of confusion as you are talking to the emergency services and are apparently in a most extreme crisis… To you, it is obvious this is not an emergency but could become one if Charlotte does not stop drinking, and those men she is flirting with were to take advantage. Nonetheless, there is no immediate risk. These things happen on a Saturday night.

Driven by Health and Safety the emergency services see lots of other possibilities, however unlikely. Without their outstanding expertise, you may be deluded in thinking that Charlotte is drunk just because you have watched her drinking all evening. But perhaps someone slipped her a date rape drug? Perhaps she had secretly taken a recreational drug, such as ecstasy, and is having a bad reaction? Perhaps Charlotte is having her first diabetic episode the symptoms of which can be similar to being drunk? Perhaps she has had a stroke? Perhaps she had struck her head earlier and was suffering from delayed concussion? Perhaps she has eaten unicorn droppings while sitting on a rainbow? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Have you ever done one of those tests to think of 20 uses for a paperclip?

Endless possibilities… Lots of nasty things could be going on supposedly hidden from the view of all but the professionals. They are the experts. Instead of getting a taxi, Charlotte is driven away in an ambulance to the local hospital for check ups. Your car will now be towed away to the garage of your choice. No! You don’t have a say in any of this now the emergency services are involved.

You my dear pleb know nothing. The car is obviously unfit for the road. Experts realise all that could go wrong: for example the loss of water from the radiator could mean that the engine will seize when you are on the dual carriageway causing an accident. The tyre could be damaged and explode. You need an expert mechanic from the local garage to examine and fix the car before using it. What? You’re an automotive engineer with a Masters degree who graduated Magna Cum Laude from MIT? That doesn’t count.

Or Think For Yourself?

Losing the Plot

A cover story of Yachting Monthly May 2008 was “Don’t Rescue Me! Taken In Tow Against His Will. How an experienced sailor found himself the reluctant target of a rescue costing thousands of pounds.” An extract was provided on the magazine’s forum discussion:

“Commander Michael Collis was returning from Ijmuiden [Holland] to Harwich with another highly experienced crewman when he was forcibly “rescued” by the RNLI despite not having asked for assistance or being reported over due. The weather was fine.

It seems his wife made a simple request to the coastguard to see if they had any news on him. She didn’t report him overdue or suggest he may be in trouble.

The Commander was told he had to accept the tow by the Lifeboat Coxswain who was acting on instructions from a coastguard helicopter crew. They cited special powers of the secretary of state. It seems that these powers are normally reserved for a situation where pollution could occur should a ship be in danger of going ashore after refusing tugs.

Commander Collis asked the RNLI Top Brass to not record the enforced tow as a rescue they refused. He has since received an apology from RNLI and Coastguard have admitted their man made a mistake. In the article Commander Collis praises the RNLI crew for the professional way they carried out the tow.”

It seems the Commander was the founder Chairman and an active technical supporter of the Red Fox Class Sailing Association. Another forum entry explains the problem of forced “rescues”:

“Happens more times than you would think ….only because the RNLI are what they are you don’t get to hear more often…”

With Commander Collis, the RNLI were acting under instruction from the Coast Guard. The real issue is that Commander Collis did not request a rescue, did not want a rescue, and was not actually rescued. I don’t know an appropriate word but “rescued” seems less appropriate than “hijacked”.  On face value it seems the rescue services overreacted and their overreaction is common as described in earlier posts.

Most people are not confident to take on the institutional might of the rescue services. Commander Collis clearly had the expertise and the wherewithal to meet them on equal terms. Some sailors have stopped using the Coast Guard for passage safety because they have heard too many stories like that of Commander Collis (e.g doug748). Nonetheless, most sailors appear to be inhibited from describing their unwanted and unneeded “rescues”.

It Happened to Us

Our problem can be stated clearly: we needed to get Tony to shore to prevent him suffering further seasickness. If he stayed on board for another day he might get better, but equally he could end up in hospital. Since Tony would not come out of the cabin, his sickness was an opportunity for a local fisherman to get some extra income by providing a tow.

Small boat fishermen in Penwith often barely scrape a living. A fee for providing a tow to get Tony home would be a good few hours work. Six miles each way round the coast in reasonably fine weather. Money for old rope as they say.

We had two options to arrange the tow. The shore crew could make the arrangement, or I could contact St Ives harbour master and check if there were a boat nearby. I decided to try the VHF before asking the shore crew to make arrangements. This was a mistake.

I grabbed the VHF and shook my head we were going back to the 1970s.  Organisations like the Coast Guard and RNLI are always behind the technology curve and they still promote the idea that boats rely on VHF radio. The Coast Guard have recently (2012) suggested boats going far from shore should carry a satellite phone. Their suggestion was considered a “game changer“,  but come on this is the 21st century. Apparently “they are in no doubt that this was a far safer, more immediate and more reassuring method than trying to raise someone on long-range radio or setting off an EPIRB.” Well Duh!

A similar argument for a standard mobile can be used for its advantages over VHF radio. I will not cover it in detail here but suffice it to say the potential for modern telephones is massively greater than that of VHF. Modern phones are basically computers; apart from their small screens they can in principle replace most of the navigation equipment on a boat. The Irish Sailing Association are way ahead.  A few simple software Apps are all that is needed to massively increase coastal safety.

VHF – Step Back in Time

The VHF radio is like going back to the days of CB radio, T-Rex, flared trousers, or computers which filled a room using paper tape and punched cards but were less powerful than today’s digital watches. It is CB radio silliness: rubber duck 10-4 good buddy roger dodger, or whatever.  You need to take a course and have a license to use one of these VHF things.

I have one of the contraptions on the boat but would not normally consider using such a legacy item. We carried two cell-phones and a Delorme InReach system to communicate with the shore crew. The InReach sends emails/texts giving the GPS position, speed, and direction from anywhere in the world by satellite. It also can send an automatic SOS and provide 24 hour direct communication with an international rescue monitoring centre. There are other cost-effective satellite systems and more will become available as the market responds. In addition we had an EPIRB (Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon). We had two automated satellite systems for “Mayday” situations.

Affordable Two-way Satellite Communicator

In a real emergency we could have sent an automated SOS giving our GPS position and enabling two-way communication via satellite. We could have activated the EPIRB with a similar alarm. We could have phoned the emergency services using one of our mobile phones. Alternately, I could have used two additional methods of sending emails with our GPS position and details of the emergency. Declaring an emergency and getting the precise location to the Coast Guard could literally have been at the press of a button. Finally, if really stuck we could fall back to the stone age official recommendations of flares or rockets. I did NOT do any of this because there was no crisis.

Tony being ill could develop into a real emergency but he would need to get much sicker for that to be the case. The rescue services rapidly made themselves our biggest problem. I tried contacting St Ives Harbour master on VHF to see if there was a fishing or recreational boat available that might like to help. The harbour master gave no response to the VHF.  In retrospect, I should have asked the shore crew for his phone number. Then I compounded my mistake by broadcasting to see if a fishing boat was in VHF range. The Coast Guard responded. Now we were in trouble!

Contacting The Coast Guard

We expected a sensible laid back conversation with a local fisherman or our shore crew. There was no need for hurry. We did not get together the paraphernalia, such as usable GPS or accurate compass, for communicating with the rescue services in an emergency. It was unnecessary.

I was not prepared for playing the “rescue game”. I was tired after about 22-hours on the tiller through bad weather overnight, lack of sleep, two days with only a small slice of pie to eat, a collision at sea, sail collapse, engine failure, near hypothermia, and then overheating while fighting the wind and tides. These were irritations but the responsibility of looking after the sick one was getting to me.

Rather annoyingly, Sick Tony felt completely safe throughout despite being incapacitated. My ability to communicate was degraded but this gives an inaccurate impression. As a computer scientist I used to design and write artificial intelligence software to a deadline occasionally. It was fairly common to work solidly for a weekend to get a piece of software working for Monday morning. In other words, it was challenging scientific software development with very little sleep. On Monday morning I would be able to explain any aspect of the software and its function at a high intellectual level. But my communication on other matters was almost down to the level of grunts.

Asking if I wanted a doughnut with my coffee might give me brain lock. Parents of geeks, computer gamers, or Aspies (Asperger’s or mild autism), will recognise the scenario. Brain good – communication bad. I accept my limitations in communicating when tired and under stress without question or excuse. However, using this in defence of the rescue services is inappropriate.

My stress was primarily trying to communicate with authoritarian people with their own coercive agenda. A high proportion of sailors talking to them will be seasick, exhausted, suffering exposure, or have other problems. The Coast Guard has developed management techniques to help take command of such situations. Their aim is to reassure the sailor and provide the confidence that professionals are on the case. Unfortunately their management approach seems to be dumbed down to a coercive level. The Coast Guard lacks the necessary ability to adapt.

Like me, some sailors will not anticipate the Coast Guards high-handed approach and may fall for the unnecessary rescue trap. They will innocently give the Coast Guard information which is then used to justify a “rescue”. It doesn’t matter if you are a Commodore, a lifeguard, or a risk analyst. The Coast Guard know best – or at least they think they do and will impose their will.

Communication Breakdown

My second error was that of the Commander’s wife. I innocently thought it sensible to inform the Coast Guard of what I was doing and the current situation. I had fallen for the hype.

You could lodge details of your trip with them and should keep them informed of any problems at an early stage. The RNLI suggest you “give the coastguard passage information”. Silly naive me. I did try to make it clear to the Coast Guard that it wasn’t an emergency. Before I knew what was happening they had a lifeboat on the way. Why? Well one reason is sometime when developing their system they must have done a rudimentary risk analysis for dealing with calls. Note “rudimentary” is not meant to be derogatory I’m using it for accuracy.

They will be acting to avoid the worst case scenario. In risk analysis this is described as minimax or minimizing the risk of the maximum harm. If you contact the Coast Guard with even a minor problem they will tend to overreact. In this case, they reasonably took my broadcast asking if anyone could hear me (i.e. could I make contact with a nearby boat) to include them. The other thing the coastguard will be doing is a form of triage.

Triage follows from the idea of preventing the maximum risk with limited resources. Imagine they have a report that a passenger liner with several hundred passengers is heading for the rocks. If your boat is at sea with a faulty rudder the rescue services will take your details but their efforts will be overstretched dealing with the liner. Expect to wait some considerable time for help. By contrast, there will be a lifeboat up your stern if the Coast Guard operative is bored, the weather is good, and it has been a quiet shift.

Whether you need it or not, rescuing you will break the monotony and be useful for their numbers. It was the first time I had ever used VHF. However, my main communication issue was the Coast Guard had gone into playing the rescue game. Instead of discussing the issues in a relaxed way they demanded urgent action and took control. It seemed clear that I was expected to respond rapidly to their questions and demands to act. To me without an emergency this was silly, counter productive, and confusing as hell. Importantly, they insisted on issuing inappropriate commands without having the necessary information.

Understand the Situation Before Taking Action

The one positive outcome from all this is that we got Tony off the boat and safely back to land. There was no crisis. The whole thing was dumb.

 What followed was inexcusable.

 

Mother Carey Meets Murphy

Strange Things Happen at Sea

Tony was excited about sailing round Lands End. His experiments with anti-sickness medication had allowed him to sail past Mousehole towards the open sea in moderate weather. He thought he had beaten the bugbear that confined him to shore fishing when many of his friends were proper seagoing fishermen. It was something he just had to try.

We waited for reasonable weather and prepared for the journey. I was nursing the boat back to Hayle to make good the storm damage. Newlyn Maid was more than seaworthy but I would be grateful for someone to take the helm occasionally. A second helmsman would be a relief from what would otherwise be at least 12-hours of tiring non-stop steering. The temporary bungy-cord self-steering was helpful but Tony might make the journey far easier. Also, his presence would mean I could make running repairs without worrying about the helm.

Our plan was to sail the boat around and only use the engine getting in and out of the harbours. It would mean a minimum journey time of 12-hours but more likely 24-hours. I told Tony that if the sea were too lumpy we would turn back before Lands End and return to Newlyn. If he did become sea-sick we would use the engine but it might still take from 6-hours to 12-hours to get to a harbour. There was enough fuel to make the whole journey by engine and we should only need to motor at most half that distance to reach a harbour. I reminded him we could only enter Hayle at high tide. Given the wind direction we might divert in an emergency to St Mary’s on the Isles of Scilly.

The next two days were weird.

Calm Sea?

The forecast was for a slight to moderate sea with a fairly strong wind. Preparing the boat on the Newlyn pontoons, we could hear the wind whistling in the rigging. Stronger than forecast but not a particular concern. Small fishing boats started to come into the harbour intermittently. One boat pulled up next to the Maid and the skipper called across.

“You’re not going out in that surely?”

“Why? Is something up? The forecast is for a slight sea.” Tony replied.

“Well, there’s nothing slight about it. I wouldn’t go out in that. Where you off?”

“Round the corner to Hayle,” Tony said with a proud smile.

“Rather you than me!”

Listening to this did not fill me with confidence. The fishermen might be teasing us as the forecast was good. I phoned the shore crew and asked them to check if the forecast had changed. No, the Meteorological Office and Passage Weather were still saying slight to moderate sea with a reasonably strong offshore wind when we round the corner. I asked them to check yet again and they confirmed everything was fine. I asked Tony if he still wanted to go.

“Hell yes,” he said.

A Penlee lifeboatman was passing and stopped for a chat. He asked when we were off. We told him we were leaving today and hoping to reach Hayle sometime tomorrow. I outlined the storm damage and briefly told him the plan. It was a little concerning that the small fishing boats were coming back into port but we had double checked the forecasts. He shrugged dismissively about the returning fishing boats. There was one potential problem: Sick Tony.

“The medication seems to work,” Tony grinned.

Yuk! To Be Avoided At All Costs

Nodding a smile at Tony the lifeboatman said they were there if needed and he went on his way. I do like the Penlee people.

The Newlyn, Observer Status, Lifeboat Station and the New Home for the Famous Penlee Lifeboatmen

 

An Inauspicious Start

The small fishing boat were still coming in as we waited for the tide. I decided we should leave early to give us more time in daylight. One of the returning fishermen helped manhandle the boat around the pontoon end so Newlyn Maid was pointing in the right direction. He seemed puzzled that we didn’t just reverse out. Tony laughed and said

“Don’t encourage Steve in a harbour he’ll only bump into stuff. He can’t even park his car. He’s useless I tell you.”

Steve in Newlyn Harbour

Pulling away from the pontoons I switched on the depth gauge and kept my eye on it. It was still under test. The device had performed well ever since the bizarre readings on the Fal. A Falmouth boat builder said the inaccurate readings were just one of those things; it had probably had been shaken about in the storm. In reality, it was accurate but gave silly readings over shallow rocky bottoms and this would be confirmed in the next couple of minutes.

As started away from the pontoons, the Maid’s junk sail was not supported by its storm damaged gallows and formed a rumpled cloth wall blocking my view. With no visibility over the port side I asked Tony to keep a visual check and give directions as we pulled away so we stayed in the channel. Of course, I should have realised he was proper Cornish and would take a “Madder Dooee” [does it really matter?] attitude. He let me cut the corner which would be fine with a higher tide. The boat touched bottom a few metres outside the channel – in what the depth gauge said was over 10 feet of water again!

I started to ask why he had not bothered with the channel marker. He was supposed to be crew not a passenger.

“It’s a harbour. And its tradition. You looked like you might make it out OK without a problem. I wasn’t having that. We have to respect your dyspraxia. Proper job.”  He laughed.

“I haven’t got bloody dyspraxia,” I replied.

“That’s not what I’ve heard. And I am the one who had to teach you how to park your car. You’ve only been driving for 35 years.” He said laughing and winning the argument hands down.

“OK. We’re stuck here for about an hour. Let’s tell the harbour master and have some coffee.”

We switched on Radio 4, opened the coffee, and had some pie. Neither of us normally eat breakfast. It was now mid-afternoon and this was the first food since the day before. We managed a small slice of a pie each. Sitting drinking coffee, we waved to the small fishing boats as they returned. Tony was highly amused and said it’s like we picnic here every day.

All the small fishing boats were coming back in. The fishermen would occasionally call out a warning about the sea state. Were they serious? I couldn’t imagine them all scuttling back into harbour for nothing. Perhaps the weather really was awful. I cautioned Tony that an unsettled sea might well be the case and we might not get far out of harbour before turning back.

Tony had been involved throughout the strengthening and rebuilding of Newlyn Maid. He now looked over at the fishing boats and thought them dangerous. Open boats without extra buoyancy were not ideal in the frequent local storms. One large wave over the top and they could be flooded. Tony had been out in a moderate sea and taken the Maid over reasonable waves and not been sick. Bad weather – Madder Dooee? He was going.

A Pleasant Sail

There was a reasonably strong wind that was not blowing from the forecast direction. Throughout this trip, we would be battling against headwinds. Tony was helmsman as we headed down Mounts Bay and out to sea. His instructions were to get and stay at least a mile out from shore. The further we were away from the rocks the safer we would be. On the helm, Tony was fine not the slightest hint of nausea all the way out of the bay and into rather larger waves than forecast. It is always difficult to estimate but they seemed to have built to about 8-feet and were the typical short nasties that seem to plague Lands End.

Tony was in his element guiding the Maid slowly over the waves. She was moving slowly about 2-3 mph (knots) over the ground. I had set just a couple of panels in the sail for stability in the wind. It was slow but steady progress. She climbed up the face of the waves lingered for a moment and glided down. Tony was fascinated.

“This is great,” he mused. “There’s none of that macho crashing through the waves she just floats gently over them like a cork.”

Tony was at the helm for 5 to 6-hours. We hoped steering the boat would help him avoid the dreaded mal de mer. It was starting to get dark and Tony looked tired. Being at the helm in wind and waves takes it out of you. He had done a good stint.

I suggested taking over the tiller while he had a rest. A few hours sleep and he could take the helm again. He couldn’t get comfortable in the cockpit. Going down in the cabin, he needed to put an extra seasickness tablet next to his gum and slap on a skin patch. The dermal patch was for long-term prevention of seasickness and they take a few hours to start working. Once someone begins to be seasick, it’s normally too late and difficult to reverse. I threw Tony the box of patches and watched him put one on. I also watched him put an anti-sickness tablet next to his gum, to make sure he stayed medicated while waiting for the patch to take effect.

This trip was a real test for Tony. So far he had been perfectly fine – not a hint of nausea. However, going down in the cabin was something else. You get thrown about from one side of the boat to the other by the wave action. There is no warning or even much of a pattern. Unpredictable pitching, rolling, and yawing is enough to make anyone sick. The one time I had felt sick since starting to sail the Maid was in the cabin at anchor. Tony would need to lie down, or hang on tight, and hope the medication worked.

A Dead Chicken Lands

Newlyn Maid was happily sailing under two panels and I conserved energy by stabilising the tiller with a bungee-cord. It became pitch black shortly after Tony went below and the waves continued to increase in size. Just occasionally we passed close to a bamboo pole piercing a crab pot marker. The markers looked different sticking out of the side of waves at odd angles.

Usually, I stayed well away from the markers but it was so dark they could not be seen until they were alongside the boat. The spray built up as the rain and disturbed sea filling the air with a fine mist. While I could make out the navigation lights in the distance, I could see only a few feet ahead. There was a sudden thump up above. The sail shook and something fell onto the cabin floor.

European Storm Petrels – Mother Carey’s Chickens

The bump in the rigging seemed like just another noise in the weather. Later at daybreak, I would realise a black seabird had come to grief. A Storm Petrel had smashed headlong into one of the sail battens and fallen into the cockpit. The bird was stuck by rigor mortis in a soaring position killed instantly in mid-flight with a broken neck.

In the morning light, I would hold the bird up for Tony to identify. He couldn’t recognise it but would look it up when he got home. This failure was not surprising as storm petrels breed in uninhabited areas and usually at night.  Petrels spend most of their time sitting on the water out to sea using high winds to help them take flight.  The petrels warn sailors of oncoming storms that may reflect the birds flying in high winds.

Mythically, killing a storm petrel portends just about as much bad luck as a Cornish sailor can bring upon himself. Killing one of “Mother Carey’s Chickens” seems to be about as bad as doing in an albatross. The petrels are apparently the souls of sailors drowned at sea. Just across the way in Breton folklore, storm petrels are the spirits of sea-captains who abused their crews and were cursed to spend eternity warning sailors of bad weather. In our blissful ignorance, we did not know the bird, its symbolism, or that we had just destroyed one. For those who believe in luck – this was bad.

Cursed?

Things started to go wrong immediately after the storm petrel hit. The already strong wind picked up even more, as if out of sympathy for the dead bird. The waves became larger and more threatening. The conditions were nowhere near as bad as in my recent Lizard storm but not nice all the same. Despite their size, the waves were well-behaved and not breaking much. These conditions were challenging on the helm but my only concern was that they did not make Tony sick.

We headed into the wind taking the waves at an acute angle. I could not see the oncoming waves and was steering the boat by feel. The waves occasionally threw a little water into the cockpit, not much, just enough to make sure everything was soaked. Rain added to the soaking and I moved all the sensitive electronics into the cabin. I navigated by eye using the hand-held GPS as a direction and speed indicator.

Gradually the boat stopped steering well and I checked the bungee-cord steering. The connection where the bungee was chained to the tiller (a small metal cleat) had come loose. I would now need to steer by hand. The bungee had allowed me short periods of rest. Taking full control of the tiller gave another warning. It had several degrees of additional play. Imagine a car’s steering wheel turning loosely from side to side, about 10 degrees, without changing the car’s direction. I could not see the cause but the rudder had been checked. It seemed likely the movement was at the top of the rudder post connected to the tiller, which is known for cracking on Coromandel’s.

Worryingly, the play in the tiller would gradually get worse through the night. I was now steering blind through some ugly waves as delicately as possible.

Collision!

Then it came. A massive crash. The boat had hit something. The noise came from above, a metallic bang as if someone had just smashed a sledgehammer into the mast. I looked up but could see nothing beyond about three feet. From what I could see the sail was OK. It wasn’t. Then I checked down below. The mast was still ringing like a bell several seconds after the impact. Tony was sitting up wondering what was going on.

“We have hit something. Listen to that. The mast is still shaking.” I stated.

“What have we hit? Rocks?”  Tony had his Madder Dooee tone. He was miles out to sea in a squall. The boat had just collided with something making a tremendous noise. Bovvered? Did he look bovvered?

“No, they’re miles away. There’s nothing in the water and the hull looks fine. Let me know if we spring a leak.”

“OK. It’s dry at the moment. Bloody noisy, though!” He complained.

He was referring to the crashing of the waves into the bow. Newlyn Maid’s bow slapped into oncoming water as the boat ran down the back of the previous wave. The wave pounding was far louder than the wind singing in the rigging and the general wave noise. Tony looked out of the cabin window to orient himself with our position and saw the sparse shore lights occasionally in the gaps between the waves.

I checked the computer navigation and it confirmed we were well away from any rocks. There had been nothing obvious in the water. Later we would discover a gouge out of the side of the aluminium mast. Something hard and probably steel had smashed into it. This damage was difficult to understand as whatever hit the mast had smashed into it 4-feet from the edge of the deck and 7-feet to 8-feet above the waterline. It had missed any other part of the boat.

How Did That Happen?

A few weeks later when walking in Sennen, we came across a crab/lobster pot marker with a steel pole rather than the usual bamboo pole. Bamboo pole safe – steel pole not so much. Unfortunately, when I returned to photograph the thing it had gone. I could not find another steel pole marker locally, but had seen this in the background while watching the movie Orca:

Steel Pole Used in Marker Buoy

Our best guess is that we hit the end of a steel pole from a marker swinging at an angle in a wave. This answer could explain how the mast and sail came to be hit so high up without any other damage to the boat. Whatever the explanation, it was fortunate that it hit the mast rather than my head.

Sail Damage

Newlyn Maid slowed noticeably. We had been making good progress in the night at about 4 mph (knots). Now we were suddenly down to less than 2 mph. Not only that we could not sail into the wind as before. Something was wrong with the sail. I could not see the damage and was not going forward before it became light when Tony would take over the tiller. Now the boat was moving too slowly to change direction easily, as there was not enough water speed over the rudder. I switched on the engine and started to motorsail. This was not an improvement. We were trying to run over the waves into a high wind. I decided to push forward using higher engine revs. It would burn fuel but worked.

Tony was moving. Perhaps he was going to come up on deck? No, he was trying to vomit. I poked my head in the hatch and asked if he had put on the anti-sickness patch. Tony said he had but it had fallen off in the night. I told him to stick another one on his arm, put two tablets next to his gum, and get on deck quickly. Madder Dooee? He placed the used patch between his watch and his skin and settled back to rest. He was alright and would be up dreckly. Dreckly was scary: it is Cornish for maybe-soon-maybe-never, a bit like the Spanish Mañana without the urgency. I told him in no uncertain terms to get on deck so we could sort him out. His response suggested he was feeling sorry for himself: Madder Dooee?

By morning, we were well round Lands End and several miles out opposite Sennen Cove. The sea was calming down. I could now assess the situation. The top batten was missing from the sail, which explained why we had been making such slow sailing progress. I had been running under a three-panel “storm sail” through the night and the top two panels were bulging useless against the wind.

I switched off the motor to save fuel and raised the sail. Raising the sail increased our speed back to 4 mph (knots) and we could steer into the wind a little more. The sail wasn’t working efficiently but we were making good progress. This speed lasted a couple of hours while Tony was becoming increasingly sick. He would not come out of the cabin despite my urging. There was no refusal to climb out just he would do it dreckly. I would make maximum speed and try to make St Ives Bay with the tide.

Cold

I was now extremely cold. Before setting off, I had put on a layer of thermal underwear under a flotation suit. The temperature dropped with the evening sun and the increasing wind. As the night progressed, I became increasingly soaked. There were more thermals ready for use just inside the cabin. However, letting go of the tiller would have the boat bounce around in the horrible waves. By dawn, I had been cold and wet for hours. Sitting stationary, I was now in the early stage of exposure. I stayed at the helm shivering until there was little choice. If Tony would not get out of the cabin and help, he would have to deal with the boat’s movement as I let go of the tiller. Gingerly I climbed into the cabin to get some extra clothes on as quickly as possible.

Tony had made a little nest for himself on the starboard side. The port side was filled with items for a long sea journey. I threw some bottles of water out on the cockpit floor to keep me hydrated. Tony was surrounded with bottles of water so at least he was not going to become dehydrated. There was no food visible. I knew there was perhaps a months worth of grub packed away but could not get at it without further disturbing Tony. The small slice of pie I had yesterday would last me. The remainder of the pies were now a soggy mess on the cockpit floor. Fasting was fine. I looked about. Anything that could move had been thrown about in the night.

Tony had grabbed what he needed when he felt sickness coming on. Many of these items had been tossed around the cabin in the waves. The shelves surrounding the cabin that had been packed with socks and other items were now mostly empty. At least Tony had been careful to be sick into a large green soft rubber bucket that he held onto like a comfort blanket. Poor Newlyn Maid had bounced about last night. Still I quickly found the spare clothes and climbed back out with two sets of dry thermals under the flotation suit. As the day wore on I would now be boiling hot but it was better than being cold.

More Sail Problems

When I returned to the tiller, the Maid was pointing towards the land. I took my time and pulled her back on course. Then I gave the shore crew an update email that automatically gave the GPS position, speed, and direction. A few minutes later the shore crew phoned. Why was I heading out to sea? Why was the journey taking so long? Why were we so far from land?  I told them about Tony being sick, the bad weather, and that it was difficult to keep the boat on course when typing emails to them. They should phone for updates as I could still steer the boat and use a standard mobile. I would phone or email if there were a real problem.

Then the sail collapsed. High wind and buffeting in the night dislodged the sheets (main rope controlling the junk sail). The blocks hit me in the back one after the other. I dropped the sail and went below for some paracord to reconnect the blocks to the hull. One strand of this “shoelace” would nominally take a load of 550 lbs. Tony was throwing up again. I was cursing that stupid St Ives lifeboat, muttering under my breath: “You can’t set the sail up. There’s no wind.” I grabbed a length of paracord went up and created a jury rig. I raised the sail a little but thought better of trying to raise it more. I would get some of the stronger 750 lbs paracord when I next went into the cabin, or if a miracle happened and Tony were to grace the cockpit with his presence. I would add a couple of loops of the 750 paracord to the fastening before raising the sail fully.

Making Repairs?

The damage to the sail and rigging would take about an hour to fix but that would mean an hour of torture for Tony. Tony had become seasick during his first trip on the boat within a minute of letting go of the tiller in a slight sea. He threw up when I got some extra thermals. With no-one on the helm, Newlyn Maid would roll, yaw, and pitch about in a style guaranteed to make Tony’s sickness a whole lot worse.

I could have given Tony a chance to come into the cockpit and take the helm, so I could the repairs. Whatever he decided. This choice would have allowed me to get him into a harbour on the next tide. He would not leave the cabin! Instead, I chose to minimise Tony’s stress, going with the jury rig and a steady boat for the time being.  Nonetheless, my being compassionate at this stage was a calculated risk that didn’t work out. There was a good chance Tony would recover as his sickness faded during the day, particularly if he came into the cockpit and took the helm. But there would be no such luck on this trip.

Back and Forth

Gurnard’s Head Looks Quite Different from the Sea

We had gone most of the way under the jury-rigged sail to approximately opposite Gurnard’s Head. Gurnard’s Head is supposed to look like the head of a fish from the sea. I saw the strange face like rock formation and asked Tony if that was Gurnard’s head.

He said a definite “No!” As if I were a total idiot.

I’m still not sure if he were looking at some other section of the coast or if he was being deliberately contrary. It was in the right section of coastline, and certainly looked like the head of a Gurnard to me. But Tony was a real local and should know. In retrospect, I think he was teasing me again. He was getting progressively sicker but still retained his silly humour.

High winds and strong tidal currents meant at times we were travelling in the general direction of Hayle and at other times slipping backwards towards Lands End. I watched as Gurnard’s Head faded into the distance. We were gradually going slowly backwards even though I was sailing as quickly as I dared without fixing the sail properly. Sailing alone I would just have just got on and done the repairs. But Tony was getting sicker. Bouncing around while I made repairs was now out of the question.

Sicker and Sicker

Tony was getting sicker faster than the waves were getting calmer. He needed to stay medicated, take fluids, and get on deck. His Madder Dooee attitude was fading fast. His dreckly coming on deck was becoming more urgent: he gave the impression he might climb out of the cabin in about a fortnight. For Tony, this sounded almost proactive – well nearly. I checked him over looking into the cabin while holding the tiller steady.

We had missed the tide at Hayle so it would be another 12-hours or so before we could get into the harbour. I decided to burn some more fuel to stop backsliding back towards Lands End. Going back to Newlyn was an option but it was now much further than carrying on to Hayle. We could anchor off Carbis Bay or pull into St Ives Harbour. Anchoring would not help Tony’s condition, so St Ives was the best option.

We tracked up the side of the traffic separation zone with the motor revving slowly. It was about as close as we could motorsail to the direction we needed to go without pushing the engine and using excessive fuel. I switched back to sailing as soon as the tide allowed.

As the day wore on we were closing on St Ives Bay but increasingly distant from the land. I needed to try to make harbour on the next tide, or take my time and catch the following tide. The safest thing to do was to take time, work the tide, and sail into St Ives Bay. Could Tony hold on? I asked how he felt, if he could hang on for another day, or should we try for the next tide. Tony felt “awful” but said he could hold on. This guy was brave, and far too tough (or perhaps stupid) for his own good.

My concern for Tony was increasing. I decided to take the risk and motorsail into the bay. We had used a lot of fuel fighting the wind, waves, and tide. I checked the long-range fuel tank and topped it up with the remainder of the reserve fuel. Calculating the amount of fuel and distance indicated we should be OK. I would head inland and cut the corner into the bay. This path would not have been my first choice. We would be going near the land in the tidal race, and hoping the engine stayed healthy. In the unlikely event of engine failure, we only had the lashed up sail to get us out of trouble.  Tony would have to let me do the running repairs. There were oars but inefficient rowing was hardly appealing. Reassuringly, the engine was nearly new and reliable.

The Engine Fails

I switched on the motor increased the revs and we motor-sailed in towards the land. The sea was now quite calm. Everything was fine and going to plan. Getting nearer to land the motor just stopped and would not restart. I checked the motor and fuel line and waited a few minutes to let the engine settle. Then after numerous tries it restarted. This should not be happening. Tony was sitting up and vomiting again with the disturbance to the boat’s motion.

We had enough fuel but I was now unsure of the motor. Being close to the North Penwith coast with engine failure did not appeal. The wind was out to sea but could swing round. The sail was a mess. The rudder controls were wobbly and I had been working the tiller gently now since for approaching 24 hours through some bad weather without a break or food. I had only a few hours sleep the night before yesterday. The wind was blustery but the sea remarkably calm as we neared land.

Then the motor stopped again. It restarted after a struggle and we carried on. Perhaps another five minutes passed before the engine stopped yet again, was restarted for a few minutes, and then died completely. The fuel line had a blockage but this was not immediately clear or resolved by removing it and reattaching.

Options

We were only a few miles away from St Ives and about half a mile from the cliffs. We would have been in St Ives in a little over an hour – if the engine were working. There were now three clear options.

1. We could use the jury rig and sail. I would need to use the wind, get back out to sea, and come round in a wide arc to St Ives Bay. Or I might sail with the wind to the Scilly Isles. Both destinations would mean another day at sea.
2. I could drop the anchor and sort the boat out. This would probably make Tony sicker. Then he would need to suffer another 12-hours before we could get into the harbour. This was my preference.
3. We could get the shore crew to arrange for one of the local working boats to come and give us a tow into St Ives. We knew several of the local fisherman and sailors. The weather was now calm and the fishermen could use the money they would receive for the tow. It would mean a tow rather than transferring Tony onto the fishing boat since there was no way we would be able to get Tony out of his little den formerly known as the cabin.

Tony Gives Up

I told Tony the engine was failing and we still had a problem with the sail; it would be at least overnight and probably a whole day before we could make a harbour. How was he? Could he make it? He needed to get out of the cabin and onto the tiller while I fixed the boat. This was no longer a request. He needed to get out of the cabin.

Tony sat up then threw up and said, “I can’t feel my hands or feet. I think I might die!”

This was confusing and not a common symptom of sea-sickness or mild dehydration. Later I would realise he had been lying on a hard foam surface and bracing himself against the waves. The result was pressure on his peripheral nerves. When sleeping on the boat, I had experienced “dead hands” from pressure at the shoulders and elbows. I did not put two and two together and was now, even more, concerned for him.

He tried standing – well crouching up against the roof in the tiny cabin.

“I can stand. I have no balance at all.” He fell back down.

“How long can you last?” I enquired.

“Not long. I think we need a tow.” He replied and threw up again.

I hadn’t given him that option but he said he needed help. I told him to stay hydrated. He nodded. Tony’s attitude was no longer Madder Dooee.

Sick Tony?

Capsizing Captain?

 

Eddie the People’s Favourite

 

Remember Eddie “The Eagle” Edwards the world’s worst ski-jumper? He represented Great Britain at the 1988 Olympics and was terrible, or great, depending on your sense of humour. Naturally he came last in his events. The Eagle risked his life every time he jumped, as did all the other competitors. Eddie was a real British eccentric continuing a fine tradition. Heavily bespectacled “Mr Magoo” the “ski dropper” was taken to heart by the public. Sadly, the humourless authorities changed the rules specifically so The Eagle could no longer compete at the Olympics.

We now have another candidate for crazy, but one who does not receive the empathy given to Eddie The Eagle. Glenn Crawley is popularly known as “Captain Calamity” and widely acknowledged as “The Worlds Worst Sailor”. He sails a Hobie 16 catamaran on the North Cornwall coast at Newquay. Crawley holds the record for having been rescued 15 times (at the last count) by the local RNLI.

It seems he got the catamaran in 2003 and his first 3 rescues in his first 3 months of sailing were because he phoned 999. No details of the circumstances are given, so let us generously assume that he was inexperienced, sailing hard, and got into trouble. He requested a rescue and the RNLI were there to help. Everything at this point was reasonable. The local RNLI were doing what all that funding is given for. Glenn was new to sailing and ran into problems. It happens. The North Cornwall coast is unforgiving and perhaps Glenn Crawley was just unlucky.

Captain Calamity did not get his title by being rescued a few times as an inexperienced sailor in difficult waters. Glenn’s rescues continued over the next decade. In February 2006, he is reported to have been “rescued” 4 times – twice by the RNLI and twice by fishing boats. The 15 RNLI rescues does not count the help Glenn received from local fishermen. Amusingly, Glenn’s 4 rescues occurred in a space of 4 hours! It must have been a challenge for him to get the boat back out to sea in between the rescues. Glenn was trying hard.

An End to Mischief?

In September 2010, Glenn completely wrecked his catamaran which he had amusingly named ‘Mischief’. He managed this by trying to surf Cribbar, also known as The Widow Maker, where the waves can be up to 30 feet high. Thirty feet might not sound much but imagine a breaking wall of water the size of a typical two or three story row of houses bearing down on you. It does not come with a little splash but hundreds of tons of water which can feel like concrete smashing into the boat. Glenn tried surfing this monster on his little plastic cat. The cat did not survive the encounter.

The Cribbar

Naturally he got another Hobie cat and called it ‘Going to 11’. His fun continued in the new boat and by 2013 he had notched up his total of 15 RNLI rescues.

The media ran the story to widespread interest. Here is one of the top rated comments from the Daily Mail website:

“Not only are the RNLI volunteers putting their life at risk this stupid man is making them have to take time off work when there is a “shout” and it is all his own fault. There is also the possibility that others could be needing the services of this fine organisation but may have to wait for assistance, and all because of his thoughtlessness and inconsideration for others.”

Almost everyone agrees Glenn Crawley is “Captain Calamity” and “The Worst Sailor in the World”. Case closed?

Brilliant or Stupid?

Thinking Like Einstein

For my sins, at university I used to try to teach PhD students how to think. There was a useful trick. It did not turn Dr Watson into Sherlock Holmes but it would take him part of the way. The trick is “always-invert”. Theoretical physicists do this sort of thing naturally. It means taking the absolute opposite case. Many people, when it is first explained, think that this is what they do already. You know, they act as devils advocate and look at the issue from the other point of view. They argue the opposite. This is not what I mean.

The idea of always-invert is to be insanely silly and take completely the opposite viewpoint. In this case, we say Glenn Crawley is the Worlds Best Sailor! His sailing is perfect and people should watch him in awe. We pretend Glenn does not need rescuing and the lifeboatmen should watch and learn. In our new crazy world, the local RNLI are not brilliant professionals but halfwits that make Mr Bean look competent. The people rubbishing Glenn are dumb and just parroting what they are supposed to think. Finally, the media are nasty, stupid, and to call them whores would be to give the oldest profession a bad name. No – let’s scrub the last one – even I can’t pretend the tabloid journos are anything but horrible.

Glenn Crawley – the Worlds Worst or Best Sailor?

Let’s think for ourselves. We will now take the extreme opposite viewpoint and see where it leads. It will be fun and interesting. We’re not really saying Glenn is the Worlds Best Sailor, whatever that means. We don’t know him. We are not defending him. Nor are we attacking the local lifeboat or anyone else. (Well, we might make an exception for the media people.) We are taking an “insane” viewpoint and seeing if we can make it work.

The Hobie 16

A Hobie Like Glenn’s in Full Flight

Let’s start with the boat. Small sailing dinghies are not stable. Dinghies that are designed to go fast are often really unstable at speed. Most people are familiar with small boats racing and falling on their side in the wind, or even capsizing completely. So we will begin with this in mind.

Dinghy Capsize Practice

The Hobie 16 is a famous small fast catamaran. It is one of the most popular boats in the world. This cat is designed to be used from a beach and in the surf. One notable feature is that when moving fast it has a tendency to pitch-pole. The front of one hull digs in and the boat goes end over end coming to rest upside down. Small catamarans do capsize, particularly when sailed hard and the Hobie 16 is no exception. People looking at Glenn from the beach might get the wrong idea that his boat was in trouble when it was doing what it was designed for.

Oops There Goes Another Hobie

People sailing a Hobie 16, racing in high winds or in surf, are likely to experience occasional capsize. For this reason, a Hobie is designed to be tough and easy to recover. The mast floats and helps sailors right the catamaran. There are other design features in the boat to help sailors right the craft such as lower buoyancy towards the rear of the hulls. It makes it easier for sailors to spin the boat back the right way up. However, even with these features, a solo sailor may have some difficulty righting the boat, particularly in waves. Glenn is not alone or even unusual in repeatedly capsizing his Hobie 16.

How People Sail Hobies

People use the Hobie in surf launching from the beach and sailing back up the beach when they return. The rudders detach so they will not be damaged by the sand. For those that need more background here are some Youtube videos of people surfing and capsizing their Hobie cats. I don’t think sailing a Hobie cat like a madman is compulsory, but it is common. It is a small beach catamaran and this is what people do with it.

We can conclude that someone sailing a Hobie catamaran of a North Cornwall beach noted for surfing waves is likely to lift a hull often and have occasional capsizes. An adventurous sailor, or one trying to go fast, is likely to capsize frequently. Racing about and even capsizing a Hobie is not dangerous behaviour in itself but just what sporty sailors do when they want a little action. People often sail them near the shore in big waves at the limits of the boat’s stability. Capsizing a Hobie can be part of the fun.

The dynamic nature of the boat gives a different viewpoint from the one presented in the media. With this dramatic Hobie background, it is difficult to imagine what Glenn could be doing with his boat to attract such unwanted attention. Surfing the Cribbar explains only one occasion.

The Cribbar

People surf their Hobie cats and occasionally take on high winds, wobbly seas, and big waves.

A Surfing Hobie

Now let us add images of a surfing Hobie from a 1973 magazine. These old images provide a dramatic context.

People Surf Hobies in Big Waves!

That Hobie is doing a great job of surfing a reasonable sized wave. I’m not sure about the size of this Hobie cat but I think it is apparent that this Pacific wave is a similar size to the Cribbar. Waves from 25-35 feet are discussed in the magazine article. The surfers comment that you are better off in the Hobie than on a surfboard. You have so much more authority with the boat compared with a board, apparently.

Sometimes a surfing Hobie can look a little out of control.

In Control! What Might a Spectator Think?

Surfing the Cribbar or even moderately sized waves in a catamaran, or anything else, does not appeal to me. Nevertheless, Hobie’s are designed for sailing in surf. Surfing such large waves is not recommended if you want the boat to remain in one piece. Nonetheless, it could be a reasonable activity and relatively safe for an experienced sailor and surfer.

Mr Crawley the Sailor

Reviewing Glenn Crawley’s interviews and comments there was something a little odd. Glenn did not seem ashamed, or even put out, but revelled in his notoriety. Even worse, there seemed to be a hint of humorous disdain about his rescuers and the people dialling 999 because he might be in trouble. Glenn claims he was not in any danger. The boat might be damaged, but he was safe. Perhaps he was oblivious to the risk? Always-inverting we might suggest that perhaps he knew the risks better than the rescuers.

It appears the media and lifeboat have ignored Glenn when he explained that he was a lifeguard for 8-years. His statement does not fit the official story at all. Assuming it is true puts a different take on the situation. It suggests Glenn is an excellent swimmer and has a professional judgement of the risks. Someone in authority found his ability sufficient to look after the lives of swimmers, surfers, and others who might get in harms way.

A lifeguard. Do we really need to be rescuing lifeguards from the surf? If so, who do we send to rescue the lifeguards? Perhaps the story is starting to seem just a little bizarre?

Glenn also claims to taught surfing. Now surfboards topple over, and the surfers are dumped into the water. Windsurfers have similar issues. Similarly, sea kayaks are unstable and capsize. We do not demand that a lifeboat be launched every time a surfer falls off his board, or a sea kayak turns turtle. Let’s be honest, an experienced surfer would soon start to complain about the interference. Surfers are not noted for their shy reticence. Perhaps we should start to focus on the competence of the local lifeboat rather than Glenn Crawley?

Some enterprising students produced an award winning video Glenn Crawley: Being Captain Calamity. Their study takes a more balanced viewpoint than the so-called professional media.

Common Sense?

Whatever happened to common sense? Surely the local RNLI should be aware of what Hobie cats are and what they are used for. They have been informed clearly by Glenn that he does not want to be “rescued” as he is not in danger. Glenn appears to be using his Hobie in the same way as many others sailors. If he needed a rescue, he will call them or signal with flares. Otherwise, Glenn the surf instructor wants to be left alone.

The coast guard or lifeboat could respond to an emergency report by telling the caller that is Glenn Crawley in his Hobie cat. They know him. He used to be a lifeguard. Yes, the boat looks unstable, goes wobbly in the surf, and sometimes it turns upside down. Hobie cats are supposed to do that.

Their current explanation for the multiple “rescues” seems to be that the lifeboat has to respond to every call. In other words the lifeboat’s behaviour is maladaptive. An absolute necessity to respond is both highly doubtful and unproductive. Surely they could exercise some degree of professional judgement? Perhaps they could check it was Glenn and then leave him alone. A lifeboat working blindly to rules so dumb that they leave absolutely no room to adapt – needs better rules! If the lifeboat decides there is a real and present danger, why not just phone Mr Crawley or send someone out to say something like “Hi Glen are you OK? Sorry about bothering you but we had another silly call. If you’re OK we’ll leave you alone.”

The lifeboat should not force a rescue, or even hang about while Glenn is sailing or righting his boat. It is unreasonable for them to inform the media and hold him up to public ridicule. There are names for such behaviour: stalking, harassment, and sociopathy. As Napoleon said – “from the sublime [Penlee lifeboat] to the ridiculous [St Ives Lifeboat] is only a step”. OK, I admit it. Napoleon wasn’t talking about lifeboats.

A Scottish National Treasure

If Glenn Crawley should be prevented from sailing, this Scotsman should be stopped from riding his bike. He breaks all the rules of the road. One mistake and he is dead. He rides on the pavement and over obstacles endangering himself. He ignores the Highway Code. He crashes his machine, falls off, and does dangerous things. He injures himself often. Why are the police not banning him from cycling? Somebody stop him. Quick phone 999. We need Heath and Safety. Now!

Danny MacAskill is a Scottish national treasure and what he does is brilliant performance art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Storm

We waited and watched the weather but conditions were worsening. I had intended sailing to Plymouth a week before the start of the Jester Challenge but the forecast was for an unsettled sea. Eventually there was a slot. Conditions would not be ideal but seemed tolerable. The wind was 30 mph gusting to 40 mph (Force 7 – 8) but the predicted sea state was moderate with waves of between about 6 and 12 feet off the Lizard. Newlyn Maid would handle this easily – provided she was properly set up. It was not ideal but would be a good test of the boat in poor weather.

We would not enter the Jester if the boat did not deal with the passage with ease; there might be plenty of bad weather in a double Atlantic crossing. Small boats are relatively slow and the Jester starts early in the year so the smaller boats can avoid the hurricane season (with a little luck). May is the least active month for Atlantic hurricanes tracking up the east coast of North America but they tend to build to a peak in late August and September. It made sense to start the Jester on time.

We had made several short trial runs in Mounts Bay concentrating on getting the self-steering working and identifying weak points on the boat. Newlyn Maid was 30 years old and things were expected to break. Our aim was to find the critical issues early and fix them.  We had missed out on the main sea trials in excellent weather (Force 0-2) and had been dealing with conditions between about Force 4 and Force 6 in Mounts Bay.

The fisherman in a boat near to Newlyn Maid on the pontoon looked aghast and asked was I really going out in the gale. Apparently, you couldn’t pay him enough to go out there… The smaller fishing boats were in harbour avoiding the weather. They needed to be. Their boats are open and a single wave over the top could be catastrophic. I would not go to sea in one of their boats whatever the weather. Basically, I’m a coward.

Tony explained that we wanted to at least try to get to the official start of the Jester, so I would sail into the bay, check if the boat was OK, and test the sea conditions. I would return to Newlyn if there were any issues or a problem. I had the option of aborting the passage at any time. There was a sequence of safe harbours between here and Portsmouth. If everything was fine, I would make the journey in a single step with a following wind after the Lizard.

Both Tony and Mousehole Mick had come down to see me off and help point the boat out of the harbour in the right direction. I was not too concerned about the gale but getting the boat off the pontoons without some minor mishap would be a first. Mick had sailed a Leisure 17 out of Mousehole harbour and told me reassuring stories of his many misadventures sailing in and out of Mousehole. His sailing stories were interspersed with tales of his years of bumping cars, falling off motorcycles, and other silly exploits. He told one story about children making bets about him sailing his boat repeatedly into the harbour wall when leaving Mousehole harbour in a blustery wind. Embarrassingly, he scraped the wall on his next attempt and much merriment ensued. According to Mick harbours were designed for the humiliation of sailors. He made me feel in good company.

Mousehole Scene Of Mick’s Many Mishaps

Newlyn Maid was manhandled out of the pontoon slot and I set off towards the swell. I increased the engine speed as I approached the gaps to leave the harbour and wondered how the boat would behave as she entered the swell. She took the first wave on her side and we were out through the gaps.  I motored the boat out into the middle of the bay making sure she was a good distance from land. We needed was plenty of room for wild and directionless sailing when setting up the self-steering. The sail was set with two panels raised to create a storm sail. I tried to balance the sail by pulling it more forward of the mast. Then the self-steering was adjusted try to move in a selected direction. For a while the boat would not steer at all.

The self-steering’s wind-vane flapped about in the gusts like a demented pendulum and the boat veered off at random. Attached by safety lines to both sides of the boat, I adjusted the wind-vane position standing on the stern lockers and holding onto the sheets (ropes that tension the sail). The waves were not too bad in the relative shelter of Mounts Bay but the adjustment was barely manageable. Standing on the back of the boat titling this way and that like a bucking bronco was not reassuring. I elected to set the wind-vane in a reasonable position, make it as tight as possible, and leave it at that. As I thought, the wind-vane mast would need to be shortened for safety. I started to introduce a little directional control by adjusting the position and tension on the steering lines leading to the tiller.

Cognitive Dissonance

I was thinking how silly it was to be trying to set up a boat in high winds and a wobbly sea. Mick was watching my attempts at control from Mousehole. Well at least I wasn’t going to have a lifeboat come alongside and tell me that there was “no wind!” I chuckled and shook my head laughing. And laughed a little more at the insanity of being so amused at my own joke. Then I  looked up and about 30 feet away was a big orange boat.

Penlee Lifeboat

The Penlee lifeboat was on its way back to Newlyn from a call out. There were several boatmen on the deck looking over. I disengaged the self-steering and dropped the sail to stop Newlyn Maid’s movement. The effect was to cover my head with the sailcloth and fill the cockpit with ropes (sheet and halyard). One of the disadvantages with a junk rig is the enormous length of rope that arrives in the cockpit if the sail is dropped quickly. Being new the ropes had a “memory” of being coiled in storage and would take any opportunity to tangle.

The lifeboatmen shouted over. But the noise of the wind and waves prevented me from hearing what they were calling out. I tried shouting back but decided there was little chance they could hear. I gave an open handed shrug to try and ask what they wanted using body language. Then decided to try to ignore them and untangle the ropes. I felt sure they were going to ask why I was messing about in these conditions and single-handed. I thought the honest answer would be confusing – because their colleagues in St Ives insisted I could not sail with a crew in calm conditions when the wind was light. Nevertheless, I was not in the mood to suffer fools gladly.

The lifeboat came around to the port side of Newlyn Maid and I could hear them call

“You alright?”

“Yes. Fine. Setting up the self-steering!” I shouted pointing to the flapping wind-vane and mast.

“OK. Good luck!” came the shouted reply. The boat’s engines revved up and off they went.

If I am honest, when I saw the boat I thought ‘Oh God, not another bunch of dickheads.’ Before our interaction with St Ives lifeboat I had far more respect. The Penlee’s Soloman Browne had just restored my faith. Returning to port after a “shout” they had approached Newlyn Maid as she was going in and out of control in a gale. They stopped to check and then continued on their way back to port. They were impressively professional. I muttered to myself, “that’s how it should be done.”

Meeting one of the Penlee lifeboatmen later was entertaining. As Soloman Browne approached Newlyn Maid one of them had asked if I were a dickhead. As in what kind of idiot would be out trying to sail in this weather. Fortunately, one of the others told him that I was all right and knew what I was doing. The lifeboatman hoped I had not been inconvenienced. Perfect!

Here in Penwith, locals think of the lifeboatmen as superheroes. Fishermen, swimmers, kayakers, and so on rely on them in an emergency. People had warned me not to describe the bizarre actions of the St Ives lifeboat honestly, as it might be most unwelcome and cause me to become unpopular. I found out later that the St Ives lifeboat has a poor reputation with some local boat people, but they are not vocal about it for fear of being considered heretics. No names no pack drill; they can speak for themselves if they so wish.  It seems that unwanted “rescues” occur and many sailors are unhappy with the RNLI but may be inhibited from voicing their complaints. We should remind people of Spiderman’s Uncle Ben: “With great power comes great responsibility.” If the St Ives lifeboatmen want to be considered superheroes, like their colleagues on the Solomon Browne, they need to act more professionally.

My experience with the lifeboats left me with cognitive dissonance. The Penlee lifeboatmen were great and the St Ives group were something else. Both should have been aware that Newlyn Maid was on her way to the start of the Jester Challenge, as it was reported on the front page of the local newspaper that week. One lifeboat had hassled us out of sailing in St Ives Bay in ideal calm weather and the other had waved me on single-handed around the Lizard in a gale. Go figure – as the Americans say. In the following days Newlyn Maid would encounter the St Ives lifeboat once more and she would not be happy, impressed, or unharmed.

Into the Storm

I had the self-steering working adequately, after a couple of hours bumping about in the waves. So, I lowered the sail and tried again to test the self-steering also worked under engine power. There was no problem, so we  set off towards the Lizard.

Rounding the Lizard in bad weather is not to be undertaken lightly. Blondie Hasler himself, when returning from the first OSTAR, nearly came unstuck rounding the Lizard in Jester. As Ewen Southby-Tailyour described it in his wonderful biography, the Atlantic had given Blondie an easy passage – until reaching the Lizard where he ran into the worst overfall he had ever seen. An overfall is when a current meets the shallows generating turbulence and a rough sea. It is a similar process to the rapids on a river. Overfalls occur at headlands and the Lizard pointing out into the Atlantic is well positioned to be particularly awkward. Sailing boats are recommended to round the Lizard about three miles out to avoid the tidal race. Interestingly, Tuna the submarine that took Blondie’s cockleshell heroes to France on their epic World War 2 mission almost grounded while rounding the Lizard on the way to Plymouth to pick them up.

Newlyn Maid was positioned  to track out of Mounts Bay close to the centre line. This gave a maximum amount of distance from the land if anything should go wrong.  The wind increased gradually after Mousehole with the waves became larger as the shelter of the land was lost. Normally the wavelength also increased generating a nice well behaved swell. Today was different. The waves started by increasing in height to about 10 feet but were steep and aggressive. Fortunately, they were not breaking at the top and Newlyn Maid moved over them gracefully despite meeting them side on.

Newlyn Maid just went up and down the waves in a calm manner. Although the wind speed is the usual indicator of bad weather, high winds are not a particular problem. Waves are the big concern. In a standard non-breaking wave the water movement is up and down rather than moving forward as many imagine. The slope of the wave accelerates and decelerates a boat, particularly a small craft like the Maid. Despite this, the few people who have been on Newlyn Maid in wobbly water have not felt at all worried. She basically moves up and down with the water inspiring confidence. Those months spent reinforcing the main body of the hull and filling the boat with over well over 30 cubic feet of buoyancy foam were reassuring.

I sat back and started to relax. It may seem strange becoming calm as I sailed into an increasing gale. But I was leaving people, the shore, and the need for close manoeuvring behind. There are a thousand things that can go wrong in harbours that require the kind of skill I do not posses. You need to be able to judge short distances and speeds. People throw and catch ropes accurately and with ease. The local fishermen and sailors seem to manoeuvre boats into tight corners without a thought. These are skills I do not have. Even after 30-years of driving I find parking in the supermarket car park a nightmare of difficulty. Riding a motorcycle at high speed was not a problem but slow speed positioning gave me the willies. My cousin Betty tells me that I have dyspraxia and it runs in the family. My response is to thank her for the offer but to decline as I could do without another label.

Newlyn Maid was happy and comfortable lifting and descending over the consecutive waves. Checking the GPS, my speed over the ground was about 4 mph. Walking speed. Newlyn Maid is so slow it makes little difference to report in miles per hour or knots (knots are 15% faster). At this rate I should be able to sail straight to Plymouth in a reasonable time, particularly after rounding the Lizard when the wind would be in my favour. The self-steering looked fine if highly overworked. The sail was keeping the boat stable riding gently over the increasingly angry waves. As each wave arrived, the boat would lift and the steering would adjust a pathway along and over the peak. As the sail lifted out of the trough it caught the wind and Newlyn Maid tilted more sideways on the slope, righting herself as she passed over the peak. The wind was still increasing as was the wave hight.

Away from the land the wind speed is usually higher than on land and this was apparent as we left the shelter of Penwith. It is difficult to judge the height of waves but these were certainly at or above the forecast maximum of 12 feet. They were between half the length and the full length of the boat. So my guess is that the larger waves were about 15 foot high. These bigger waves were starting to curl over at the peak. The wave tops would occasionally break over the cockpit and deck. I watched the motion of the boat and the sea carefully. Breaking waves on the side of the boat was the main danger in a storm. For Newlyn Maid breaking waves larger than about 8 feet hitting beam on could cause a knock down crashing the mast into the water and overturning the boat. Avoiding being side-on to large breaking waves was one of my main aims. Nevertheless, to get out past the Lizard we needed to take these waves on the side, or pass though the tidal race which seemed even less appealing. So I settled down to have a picnic.

My Picnic

I lined up the flasks of coffee and a mixture of dried fruit and nuts. Past experience of sailing in bad weather made me expect that I was about to be splashing the drink over my head, down on my lap, or spreading it wildly about the cockpit. This wasn’t too bad however. I could pour a small amount of coffee from the sports flask into its deep sided cup by timing the movement to follow the next wave peak. Similarly, I could get the cup to my mouth on the fall off a wave. Though it must be admitted that the coffee tasted salty.

The gale was worsening as I sailed south. I could tell this as now the tops of the occasional big waves were braking over my head. Later I would find the studs on my Australian bush hat rusted. I held on to the side of the boat so as not to be dislodged. Newlyn Maid was sliding sideways as she took each wave. Roger Taylor had chosen bilge keels on his corribee Ming Ming because of this sliding effect. He argued that a fin keel could trip the boat up when waves hit from the side. My practical test confirmed his analysis and experience. She was now tilting wildly on the larger waves. Reluctantly, I had a last swig of coffee and put away my picnic. As I screwed the cup back on the top of the flask I noticed the noise from the self-steering was getting louder. Looking up there was a bolt hanging out of the wind-vane control box.  As anticipated, the weather was starting to take its toll.

I disengaged the self-steering and fastened down the wind-vane. The lock on the wind-vane to hold it in position was no match for the prevailing winds, but I tied it to the boat and stabilised the system. In these waves I couldn’t rotate the self-steering rudder out of the water. It would be dangerous even to try as it involved leaning over the stern. But the self-steering was stable and locked. I had anticipated problems with the steering and was expecting to spend hours on the tiller. The time scheduled for setting up the alternate home made bungy cord based self-steering had gone, abandoned with the good weather sailing. Tiller steering would be tiring but the weather was no longer good for experimenting with new steering techniques.

Steering by hand I did a check of the sail. I had been looking over the boat at short intervals throughout and nothing was amiss. This time a top batten had worked its way loose. Normally it would be easy to tie up and secure but there was no way I was moving forward from the cockpit. We had needed time in more reasonable weather for the new ropes to stretch, bed in, and be retied. I lowered the sail to make sure the batten did not fall out and get lost. I turned on the motor and would switch back to the sail in the unlikely event there were problems with the engine.

Next the sliding hatch was dislodged by the waves. The wooden runner guide on the port side was ripped away. There may have been some hidden rot weakening the wood we had missed when checking. Either that or the waves occasionally splashing across the deck were stronger than I thought. Once again this was not really an issue. Just one of those weaknesses it was better to discover a few miles from home rather than mid Atlantic. The broken wooden strip helped support the gallows for the sail. So the furled sail was lowered onto the deck. About half the cockpit was taken up by the sail and it obscured the port side view. It didn’t matter as the waves were limiting what I could see. In the wave troughs I could see as far as the nearby walls of water, but the boat traversing the higher wave tops gave a good distance view.  Every few minutes I used the standing tiptoe on the cockpit seats technique to gauge conditions and see if there were any boats or other obstacles. Unsurprisingly, I had the whole sea to myself and did not see another boat before Falmouth.

I had considered returning to Newlyn but we had passed the point at which it was easier to go back rather than on towards Plymouth. We would motor into the Fal and anchor up. Sheltering in the Fal would allow me to tightened up and reset the self-steering, then retie and tension the rigging and sail. Steering by hand it would take us another hour or two to get sufficiently far south to avoid the tidal race on the Lizard. Taking the larger and now curling waves on the beam was not ideal. Lowering the sail had reduced the boats stability. So I decided to gradually ease the direction of travel more to the east. I started to feel a little more play in the tiller and added it to the mental list of things to check later. Following the calmest path took us through the tidal race but I had a tail wind, the waves were no longer on the beam, and the boat felt happier.

Unsurprisingly, I was not focussing on taking pictures of the storm. The weather was poor but it was not like the massive crashing waves of the unusually severe storms Cornwall had experienced in the winter. It was perhaps Force 8+ rather than Force 10 or 11. Still the conditions were not something I would recommend for rounding the Lizard. I had often wondered about those youtube videos that always seemed to claim the sea was much calmer in the film than it had been a short time ago. The reason is obvious. You are busy when sailing in bad weather and getting a camera out is not the first priority. It might also be a little difficult to keep the camera from being washed overboard, never mind it being destroyed by the salt water. Anyway, I did an interweb search for the nearest picture I could find to match the conditions. The sea around the Lizard looked something like this:

 

Rough Sea at the Lizard

Newlyn Maid just bobbed about in the waves like a cork or one of those famous little yellow ducks. There was never any particular feeling that she was anything but enjoying the conditions. The weather calmed down a little after the tidal race off the Lizard. It was still blowing a gale but the sea was relatively calm. We were now back in the sea state expected from the weather forecast. The following wind was pushing the boat towards Falmouth. It was dark, raining, and visibility was poor. So I finished my Picnic.

 

 

 

 

Malcome’s Jester Challenge

There are several video accounts of Jester Challengers and their experiences on Youtube. The one I found most useful and entertaining was Baby Steps to the Ocean by Malcome Collins. Malcome took Helix, a 28 foot Twister, to the Azores in 2008. His start was delayed but he persevered and made it to Terceira. Malcome’s series of short personal videos give a taste of what it is like single-handed sailing in the Jester.

Malcome and Helix

Malcome was down to enter the 2014 Jester in a more reasonably sized 22 foot Hurley. The Twister was far too palatial with an extra 6 feet of unnecessary boat. I was looking forward to meeting Malcome at the 2014 start in Plymouth. Sadly, he was not able to prepare his new boat in time and will not be entering this year. I think this is a great loss, but in 2008 he played fast and loose with the many restrictive and onerous rules imposed by the Jester Challenge authorities.

Someone should have explained to Malcome that single-handed means you sail the boat by yourself. Malcome never seemed to be alone. In 2008 his son Brett helped him get to the start. The videos are telling. Brett seemed to do all the sailing down the east coast from Blyth and on to Plymouth. Not only that, Malcome sneaked an experienced crew member, known as Salty, along for the ride to the Azores. Your supposed to sail the boat yourself Malcome – that’s what single-handed means! In the Jester itself, Salty helped with the tiller, sails, and rigging but Malcome became jealous of Salty’s superior nautical ability and professionalism. The skipper pulled rank almost instigating a mutiny. Salty still holds a grudge!

Anyway, I emailed Malcome and he let me know that he could not make this year’s Jester. However, Salty found out and sent an email telling me that he would be pleased to crew for me, as a backup for the Y&B self steering. Salty explained that the self-steering is the single most important piece of equipment. He said you can never be too sure and he could show me how to rig a sail to tiller self steering system, just in case. Salty’s plan was to sneak aboard the boat in Queen Anne’s Battery and stay hidden until out of sight of land. He was disappointed when I explained that I had more respect for the rules than Malcome and would not take along a crew. Salty was devastated but said he would help get Malcome’s boat ready for the Azores Jester in 2016.

Take a look at Baby Steps to the Ocean. It has the usual whales, dolphins, and bad weather but the main interest is the story of Malcome facing the half imagined perils of the journey and the very real human issues of a mutiny on a small boat. Malcome gives a feel for the worry, excitement, and isolation of the Jester.

Round to Newlyn

I had bought the boat and prepared for my first solo trials sailing the river Fal. The idea was to stay on the boat gaining experience sailing up and down the river waiting for near perfect conditions to take the boat round to Newlyn harbour. I had planned to remain on the boat in the river for perhaps a week or two. As it transpired I had a little more fun than expected.

I had spent the previous weeks collecting safety gear and studying the route to Newlyn. Every reasonable eventuality was covered and some that were unreasonable. What to do in the case of engine failure. Key points on the journey where a decision to abort would be taken and the nearest port of safety. I carried three GPS receivers and full electronic navigation. The course was also plotted on paper maps. I would never be out of mobile phone range, and arranged to give locations and updates during the journey. The tides and weather forecasts were considered. I carried a hand held VHF and an emergency GPS locator. I was always fastened on to the boat and wore a flotation suit. And so on… I told people that everything was covered. The only thing that concerned me was the harbour. This produced some quizzicle looks. Hard to explain that the problems of being at sea can be planned for but harbours have their own set of challenges. It was a pyrrhic reward later when people told me how right I had been.

Deciding to go

I stayed the first night on the boat and slept reasonably well listening to BBC Radio 4. The time and conditions needed to be right for the trip to Newlyn, and I had allowed up to two weeks waiting time which would be extended if necessary. Waking at about 5am, I noticed that the wind had dropped as the forecast had suggested. The river’s surface was like glass. Every so often a fish would break the surface. It was a perfect morning. I decided to motor from Penryn past the Inner Harbour at Falmouth to the Carrick Roads and check the conditions again.

My experience with sunburn when last on the river was not to be repeated. I covered my face with children’s waterproof hypo-allergenic factor 50. The sun was not getting through that. This was ultimately a big mistake but I did not know it yet. Suffice it to say at this point that hypo-allergenic was not all it claimed.

The outboard motor was new and needed running in. With the engine ticking over the boat slowly moved down the river. The conditions were perfect. The sail went up outside the main Falmouth harbour and I decided to move out to the river entrance and check the sea state. It was a beautiful Cornish sunrise. The sea was glassy with the sun glistening on tiny wavelets. So I cut the motor and sailed out to the south west past Falmouth Bay, knowing I could dash in to the Helford River if needed.

After an hour or two of ghosting along under sail alone I decided to motor-sail down past the Manacles. The name of these rocks was more than a little off putting and I stayed well away. Sea conditions were so gentle it seemed silly not to push on towards the Lizard. On that incredibly clear day, the shoreline was striking as it came down to meet the sea. I had the tide and what little wind was present in my favour. The forecast was for an offshore headwind in Mounts Bay on the other side of the Lizard but Mounts Bay is normally sheltered and the wind would not have a long stretch to build up the waves. I was more concerned about the tidal race of the Lizard itself. Gradually I increased the distance between the boat and the land to remain in calm waters.

Then sitting on the water just inshore of the boat was a puffin. I had never seen one in real life before. Only strange comical birds on TV wildlife programs. So my next text message read simply “Puffin!” Rounding the Lizard the waves gained a little in height and the wind increased. There was a slight indication of disturbed water warning of what the tidal race might become in rough weather. This moderate sea was pleasant and a little more interesting than a flat calm. I was puzzling about the sail which had not been responding in the way I expected. It did not swing out across the boat. Later I realised that the rigging was not well set up. The boat had sailed fine on the river but that was because the junk rig was so forgiving. In the increasing wind and the waves something was not quite right. It would take a little familiarity with the working of the sail and a thorough reading of Blondie Hasler’s book (co-author J.K McLeod) on the junk rig before the situation was clarified.

Everything was proceeding calmly. I was drinking coffee and eating a snack. Then it hit.

Mounts Bay

The wind suddenly increased pushing the boat back round to the south and more onto its side. This is more like it, I thought. Immediately reefing the sail, lowering it by one batten. Then another gust and the boat veered over and away again. I lowered the sail completely, but one of the upper battens caught at the front in the supporting ropes (lazy jacks). The result of the sail becoming caught in the forward rigging was a small residual sail not unlike a storm sail. I could go forward and free it but it was doing no harm and was helping stabilise the boat. I could clear the problem more safely in the harbour. The flat calm had gradually given way to a moderate sea and wind; then suddenly I was pushing my way against a force 5 or 6 through steep waves with a short wavelength. To prevent each wave bringing the boat to a complete stop we climbed each wave at an angle. The boat bouncing over each wave in turn. The morning had been gentle and smooth. The afternoon was going to test my sea-legs.

There was no real concern, I wondered if the wobbly sea might help me find my susceptibility to sea-sickness but the boat was unperturbed. It was just a useful exercise helping me find out how the boat responded. My main issue was an almost complete inability to drink anything out of a cup. I proceeded to cover myself with a shower of coffee. Then I turned to a bottle of water and got a similar soaking. Fortunately, I’d brought some water bottles with sports caps. Grasping the cap in my mouth I could drink on what seemed like a roller coaster ride. I looked around and there were three tankers anchored ahead. I estimated that they might be about 1-2 miles away. Two hours later when the boat had covered only half that distance, I realised this trip would take somewhat longer than anticipated. I considered increasing the engine revs but decided to keep them to a minimum as part of running in the motor. We would get to Newlyn eventually.

Then came a text from SWMBO “Where are you?” So I tried replying. By this time I’d realised that pushing against the oncoming wind and waves meant I could not get away from the tiller. Let go of the tiller and the boat was off happily in the wrong direction. The value of a self-steering system was now all too obvious.  So it was text with my left hand while bouncing up, down, and sideways in the waves and steering with the right. I hardly ever use a mobile phone and rarely text. So every character was a struggle. What to reply? I wanted a minimum number of characters and eventually settled on “Mounts Bay”. Back came the reply. “Yes, I know that. Where in Mounts Bay?” At least she was kind and left out the last word “stupid!”

So I look about for a point of reference that can be sent in as short a message as possible and eventually typed out “tankers”. That should do it. The response is “I thought you would be much further on. You rounded the Lizard ages ago!” I thought it best not to reply. So the hours past. The waves and wind gradually eased as the boat gained the shelter of the bay. Something else was wrong though. It was starting to get dark and St Michaels Mount did not look right. I was expecting the classic triangle with a small castle atop. This mound was the wrong shape. Perhaps my eyes were tired. I had been covered in a spray of salty water for hours no wonder my eyes itched. I rubbed them but that only made the issue worse. The itching grew and the Mount still looked odd.

I was now getting towards Penzance but it was obvious I would be entering Newlyn harbour after dark. Pity. I wanted to avoid that. Didn’t mind the wind and waves but harbours are just scary. I could see the lights in Penzance but they did not look right. They were blurred. I rubbed my sore eyes again and the little coloured twinkles became kaleidoscopic star-bursts. The blurred lights now looked liked a firework display. Each light spiking and blending into its neighbours. In other circumstances it might have been an interesting psychedelic like experience. But it wasn’t. My eyes stung – really itched. Oh dear. I was almost blind. This was new. I mused that I hadn’t taken account of the onset of sudden blindness when considering the risks. How remiss of me.

At first I retained my bearings. I was familiar with the Penzance seafront and thought I could orient myself. As I drew closer the more psychedelic were the lights and less certain I was. There was only one thing to do. I knew the bay so I would follow what seemed to be the promenade towards Newlyn harbour. I found the gear pole marking rocks pushing out into the bay and that gave me an approximate position. Then my mobile went again. Since I never use the thing and was using text for the journey I was not expecting a call. Almost no-one knew the number. I answered it but the voice was a stranger. I politely told him I was too busy to speak at the moment and hung up. Bugger, now where was I again? The phone rang again. This time I recognised the voice – SWMBO.

“You just hung up on Dave. He’s in charge of the harbour. Will you speak with him?”

“OK”, I said not really wanting to waste time in idle chit chat.

“Where are you?” said Dave.

“Outside the harbour. In the bay. I can’t tell you where exactly because I can’t see. I’m almost blind and don’t know why.”

“Can you see the gaps?” he asked.

“No I’m trying to locate the harbour,” I laughed. I had a fair idea I could identify the harbour wall when a little closer.

“Can you see the lighthouse?”

“No, all the lights are blurred, coloured sunbursts,” I tried to explain.

“Can you see it now?” Dave was shining his torch from the harbour wall onto the lighthouse.

I could not identify the lighthouse but I could see the movement of the torch, star-bursts or not.

“Got it.” I said. Dave’s moving torch told me where the harbour wall was, so I could find the gaps. The gaps is the name given to Newlyn harbour entrance.

As I entered through the gaps it felt as if a giant spider had enveloped me in its web. The more I struggled the tighter it gripped. Moving my arms was now awkward. I could feel the strong filaments but could not break then easily. It was becoming difficult to steer and I was finding any movement difficult. Something on the spider’s web was sharp and cut the skin on my hand. I had not considered the risk of being attacked by a giant spider when entering Newlyn harbour. Silly me. I should know better having watched lots of B-rated science fiction movies. Now someone was shouting and screaming obscenities like a crazy man on the harbour wall. As if I didn’t have enough problems, I had to deal with an irate lunatic. Cutting the engine I moved the boat over to the harbour wall to check what he wanted.

“Hey dummy. Didn’t you see my line? You broke my fishing line!”

He was fishing across the harbour entrance and the boat had gone through snapping his fishing line. So the imaginary spider had a more down to earth explanation. I preferred the giant spider fantasy.

“What?” I asked incredulously.

“Didn’t you see my line? You broke it!”

There was only one possible response.

“See your fishing line, I couldn’t even see the bloody harbour!” I shouted.

Shaking my head I increased the revs on the motor and moved away. With a little effort I managed to locate the pontoon. Dave and, one of the people following my passage, Caroline Astin helped me untie the fishing line, which had rather a number of large hooks attached, and secure the boat. I told Dave about the idiot fisherman and he asked what side of the gaps he was on. The illegal side – so off Dave the Harbour ran to apprehend the offender.

The source of my vision loss was the sunblock being washed into my eyes. Cleaning it off at home restored a little vision and brought relief. It would be be a week before the irritation fully subsided.  Early the next afternoon I returned with SWMBO to check the boat was secure and met the guy who collects the mooring fees. This must be one of Dave’s co-workers, as it was about 12 hours since I tied the boat up. Taking the opportunity, I began to tell him how great Dave the Harbour had been and how helpful. I was laying it on thick.

“Do you know who this is?” asked SWMBO.

“One of the harbour staff.” I replied.

“This is Dave! Don’t you recognise him?”

I felt the embarrassment. I hated harbours even more.

“How could I? I’ve never seen him before! Remember?”

The Jester Challenge?

 

From Plymouth to Newport

Fun is a strange thing. When I read about the Jester Challenge it seemed like fun. When I told others about it, they thought it was crazy. For those who don’t know, the Jester is a single-handed crossing of the Atlantic in a small boat sailing against the prevailing winds. In other words, the Jester is a return to simple sailing adventure. The boats are small, between 20 and 30 feet, but they don’t even seem to like their own rules and happily make exceptions if your boat does not fit. The upper size limit of 30 feet reflects the minimum size for boats that can meet the OSTAR (Observer Single Handed Transatlantic Race) regulations. The OSTAR originated with Blondie Hasler and his boat Jester.

Jester was sailed by Blondie in the first OSTAR transatlantic race. Blondie modified a folkboat by removing the cockpit, fitting a Chinese junk rig, and a self-steering system of his own design. The end result, while immensely seaworthy, looked so ridiculous at the time he just had to name it Jester. However, over time the OSTAR organizers changed the rules effectively excluding small boats such as Blondie’s original 25 foot Jester! To be fair this is an overstatement but most Jester Challenge boats would not qualify.

The influence of money, technology, and regulations were established as the OSTAR became more popular. Rules on boat stability and design characteristics were introduced for the “safety” of the boats and competitors. A boat must comply, or get special dispensation if it is an unusual design. Such processes are common with our elf-and-safety society. Nevertheless, one of the reasons for the original transatlantic race seems to have been Blondie’s desire to test some of his design innovations in Jester. Typically, the Jester Challenge boats are modified from decades old cruisers normally found sailing river estuaries in fine summer weather. Importantly, some Jester Challenge boats seem far more seaworthy than many deemed fit for the open ocean (RCD Category A).

The Jester Challenge is a return to the philosophy of the original transatlantic race. Ewen Southby-Tailyour the founder of the Challenge explained how he wanted the skippers to take full responsibility for their actions and their vessels. There was to be no nannying rules and no entry fees.  It should be FUN and not taken too seriously as a “race”. The aim is to arrive safely. He set minimal rules. He described the challengers as Corinthian yachtsmen who should behave like gentlemen who play the game with a straight bat. The Jester Challenge should be simple, unpretentious, and without hype.

The Jester Challenge appeals to my sense of the absurd: anarchic single-handed sailors crossing an ocean in tiny old boats for fun, and with little or no concern about who “wins” the race. Even the name Jester Challenge seems to reflect the inherent silliness of the idea. I was interested in the idea of having fun – whatever that is.

Blondie Hasler aboard Jester – note the absence of a normal cockpit

Getting More details

I emailed Ewen just to ask about details for the 2014 event. Ewen’s reply was perfect including the sentence, “The list of those interested in the Jester Challenge 2014 (JC 2014) is beginning to grow and I have added your name to it.” So that was it; I must do the Jester in 2014. It was official! Thank you Ewen for making the decision for me.

One initial problem was I needed a boat. The fact that I’d never sailed before and didn’t know how seasick I might become were hardly of interest. Such things are mere trifles. The distance from Plymouth to Newport, Rhode Island would be about 5,000 miles of actual sailing. I could take the namby-pamby southern route and call in at the Azores if needed. Of course, I would also need to come back home, so make that a nominal distance of 10,000 miles. Ten thousand miles doesn’t seem far if you say it quickly.

I started thinking about suitable boats in a sensible (very low) price range. The boat needed to be small, less than about 25 feet to keep the harbour fees within reasonable limits. Three boats seemed to stand out. The Achilles 24 is a sleek, fast seaworthy boat well capable of sailing the Atlantic.  I liked the triple keel version. The Hurley 22 was also a possibility, a solid boat that has crossed the Atlantic.  Then there was the Corribee a neat boat just short of 21 feet long. Finding a boat and place to keep it was taking time. Just as time was running out for preparations, a 21 foot Newbridge Coromandel became available in Falmouth.

Coromandel awaiting refit to be relaunched as Newlyn Maid

The Coromandel is basically a junk rigged Corribee. A junk rig would be ideal as it is particularly easy to sail and can be controlled from the safety of the cockpit. The sail was made popular by Blondie who developed it for blue water single-handed sailing. The boat is similar to Roger Taylor’s well-known Ming-Ming a junk rigged Corribee in which he undertook an impressive set of single-handed ocean voyages.  Roger has moved up to Ming-Ming 2 a highly modified Achilles 24. He found the Corribee a little slow for his long passage making. Throughout this little adventure I have been making numerous assessments of feasibility and risk; reassuringly I found my choices simply followed those made earlier by Roger Taylor.

Buying the boat

Ben the boats previous owner offered to give me a test drive in the Coromandel. This was very welcome – a free training session. The day before Ben instructed me to wrap up well as there was a cold wind. I turned up for the sailing on the river Fal in thermals on what became the hottest day of the year so far. Rather than frostbite I ended the day with sunburn – my face bright red from the intense sun!

Ben suggested I take the tiller and steer while he demonstrated the sails and characteristics of the boat. He also took the time to explain the basic rules of inshore passage making. The boat used the right hand side of the channel. There were some confusing concepts. A boat on a starboard tack usually has right of way. But this description is a little misleading. Starboard is the right side of the boat when looking forward to the bow. However, on a starboard tack the wind comes from the right side of the boat which would thus be leaning towards the left or port side. A starboard tack was named from the direction of the wind rather than that of the boat. There was a new name for everything – sailing jargon abounds.

Ben’s ability to communicate his practical knowledge was impressive. He demonstrated anchoring the boat when we stopped for a snack. We went forward into position slowly using the motor. Then he cut the engine and went forward to work the anchor. He started lowering the anchor as the boat stopped moving forward, the momentum from the engine decayed, and the tide took over moving the boat backwards. Gradually the chain was let out along the riverbed halting occasionally to make sure the chain played out in a straight line and did not fall in a heap. The positioning of the boat was done relative to three other nearby boats that were also at anchor. Ben explained how he was checking the likely position of the other boats anchor chains and how the boats would swing around as the tide or wind changed. It was important to leave a good distance and make sure our anchor did not interfere with the anchor lines from the current boats. In addition he was taking into account the other boats might need space to turn, possibly under sail alone making sure we would not be in their way. This was all second nature to Ben. Nevertheless, the skill level was surprising, particularly to someone who was on their first sailing trip. I listened intently and realized my luck in finding such a great instructor.

Ben kindly spent about five hours sailing the Fal with me.  However, he was concerned as he came to realize that I needed to get the boat back to Newlyn. Newlyn was the other side of the Lizard and a demanding passage for even a reasonably competent sailor. He suggested I should take an experienced sailor who knew the local area and waters. When Ben realized that the ultimate destination was Hayle which involved sailing around both the Lizard and Lands End he seemed even more concerned. I decided not to tell him I wanted the boat for the Jester Challenge and that sailing round the Lizard was a good baby step to get started.

Taking proper care

The sea around Cornwall can be formidable and the coastline is cluttered with historic wrecks. In the 18th century a British Navy fleet ran into rocks off the Isles of Scilly and over 1,000 lives were lost. More recently the 1979 Fastnet Race in the Celtic Sea was perhaps the most dramatic recent boating tragedy. A little over 300 yachts were caught in a storm, 15 sailors died as five boats sank and about 75 boats were rolled over.

A few weeks earlier in Falmouth newly-wed Mary Unwin had been given a 31 foot boat Seagair as a present from her husband. They had been divorced for three years but had reconciled and remarried. Sixty five year-old Mary claimed to have substantial sailing experience from years before and, like me, had taken a trial run up the Fal to reacquaint herself. Her sailing instructor reported that she thought her intended trip to Bideford in North Devon was about 60 miles rather than the 150 nautical miles or so of reality. Perhaps she had misunderstood that she would be zigzagging around the coast of Cornwall rather than the more direct overland distance. The instructor told her to do the trip with an experienced crew and that he could arrange suitable support. Despite being asked not to go off sailing on her own she left Falmouth the following morning. Reportedly she told two fishermen, who also advised her not to attempt the trip, that sailing was just like driving a car.

The poor instructor was disturbed when at 7am he realized that Seagair had sailed. He thought it a silly and dangerous thing to do, risking her life like that and perhaps he would be one of the last people to see her alive.

What they were worried about – the Longships lighthouse off Lands End is somewhere in that lot.

The night before Mary appeared agitated that people were saying she should not make the trip alone: it was far too dangerous. So go she did, apparently lacking suitable maps, safety gear, or other preparations. About 40 miles into her journey Mary stopped at Mousehole Harbour seemingly to get some cigarettes. Here there were indications she could not control the boat fully while mooring up and twice hit another boat. Finbar Jones a local fisherman helped her tie the boat along the harbour wall. When he realized she intended sailing around Lands End in poor weather he thought she must be joking. Once again Mary was told it was far too dangerous and she should delay. Poor Finbar Jones was unable to persuade her. Mary had a nap and set off at about 6.30 pm. She was never seen again. Fragments of Seagair were later washed up ashore and it is thought the boat ran into the rocks off Lands End. An alarm was raised by her new husband  but the tragedy was over.

Ben thus had good reason to be concerned about a beginner setting off from Falmouth to round Lands End. Gradually we discussed the situation and slowly my explanations of my risk aversion, the safety gear I was using, and the several backup methods of navigation began to reassure him. I explained that as a physicist the navigation was not a concern, I understood about the tides, basically the situation was completely different from that of the ill-fated Mary Unwin and Seagair. Ben gradually increased in confidence and realized that I was not embarking on a suicide mission.

For the next three weeks while I prepared for the first leg of the trip, around the Lizard to Newlyn, like Mary I was told by many knowledgeable people of the difficulties and dangers of the journey. Unlike Mary, I considered carefully every comment and point that was made and minimized the risk. The plan was to stay on the boat on the Fal river gaining in sailing experience until the weather and tide window was near perfect for the first leg of my journey around the Lizard to Newlyn. Yes, this really could be fun.