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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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?