Editor's note: This was transcribed by Ian Wallace (A9m "Spearhead") from a Roneo'd copy of Rodney Kendall's piece.
RODNEY KENDALL'S PERSONAL REPORT ON SINGLE-HANDED TRANSATLANTIC RACE - OSTAR 76 - SAILING IN “SONGEUR” ACHILLES 24 YACHT
Friday night, the 4th of June, was the calmest evening I have ever spent aboard “Songeur”, my kit built A 24. She was rafted up against “Achilles Neuf” in Millbay Docks, Plymouth, along with 123 other entrants in OSTAR 76. Laying in my one and only bunk, the port quarter berth, the only sound was the steady tick of the quartz chronometer above the chart table. I made a mental note to check its error against the radio signal in the morning before the starting gun at 1300hrs. for to-morrow was THE day. I churned over in my mind the endless lists of preparations which the previous months had entailed, least there be some detail I had overlooked. I was quite sure there would be things overlooked but I couldn't think of any at the time.
I was completely satisfied with Songeur's state of readiness although I was a little concerned at how low she was floating. I had not had the opportunity to sail her before the start of the race so I was hoping her trim would be alright as reorganising the boat while underway is a miserable business. Stowed forward in what would normally be the forecabin were nine sails – main, R.H.spinnaker, ghoster, No.1 genoa, No.2 genoa heavy, No.2 genoa light, No.1 jib, No.3 jib and storm jib – two bags of clothing and a box of lightweight stores. To offset this weight forward the aft lockers contained the heavier tinned stores and spare gear and the liferaft (a surprisingly heavy item) was stored in the cockpit under the tiller. She was floating with her marks just under and was a source of amusement amongst the other competitors. I suspect their amusement would have turned to concern if they knew I was starting with only nine gallons of water aboard, in an effort to keep the weight down. Looking now with hindsight I should have decreased my food load by about 40% and taken an extra gallon of water.
The Saturday morning
dawned grey and calm. The tow boats came
spilling into the dock seconds after the gates opened at 10.00hrs; hasty good wishes and farewells were said – I
tied up astern of Chris in “Achilles Neuf” and moments later we were edging out
towards the start-line in Plymouth Sound.
Nightfall found us approaching the Lizard in poor visibility with the No.1 genoa and full main set and yours truly in his typical 'first night at sea' position, namely, hanging over the lee rail feeding the fish. I am always sick first night out but usually have my sea legs within 2 days. This time, however, with steadily deteriorating weather I was sick and virtually unable to eat for five days.
We all knew from the weather briefing that we were sailing into bad weather and could expect a moderate gale within the first week. The wind increased a little on the second day, most of which was spent under a No.2 genoa and main. Progress was good for the second and third day but fourth day found “Songeur” going to windward under No.2 genoa alone. By sunset we were under No.1 jib alone, going to windward in a shower of spray and foam with a series of teeth-rattling slams and bangs as “Songeur” leapt off the tops of successive seas and fell into the hole beyond. By now, the wind was 30 knots plus and we were sailing about 50 degrees off the wind. The speed never went below six knots indicated and in these punishing conditions “Songeur” put 140 miles on the log in 24 hours. The best of the entire race.
In the first week I don't think I could have managed more than one and a half hour's sleep per day and had eaten very little due to seasickness. When the weather eventually settled down to a steady 15-20 knot SW in the second week, I was able to catch up on some sleep and forced myself to eat, whereupon I immediately began to feel better. The first few days of single handing out of the Western Approaches and across the Sole Bank are invariably strenuous due to the vigilance required for shipping and fishing fleets.
I had not seen any other competitors since the second day and in fact did not see any at all for the remainder of the race nor did I at any stage receive news of the race. Had I been getting news, I would have been aware of the drama that was taking place to the NW of my position on the 14/15th June, where heavy weather was taking a savage toll on those competitors on the northern route. I noted in my log for this period that the swells in my area were the biggest I have ever seen. From the top of these swells the view was spectacular and resembled range upon range of mountains advancing to the SE at about 30 mph. Although due to the long frequency of the swells they were in no way dangerous, each one brought with it a rush of wind which would cause Songeur to round up from her intended course, and arrive at the summit of each mountain in a dead luff with the self steering gear in a state of confusion as to where in fact the wind was coming from.
As the second week progressed I slid into the comfortable routine of single-handed voyaging, as day followed day it became very much a way of life. A time of companionable solitude and deep satisfaction. I shall spare you all a wave by wave description of the voyage but perhaps describe what could be considered a typical day, if such a thing exists at sea.
I would normally be up and about either at or shortly before daybreak. To watch the day begin from the cockpit of a yacht at sea, with a fair breeze and a mug of steaming coffee is to feel life itself begin. I would often just sit and feel the day for about an hour stirring only to trim the boat. When it became light enough to see easily I would check the deck and rig to see that all had survived the night free from chafe or damage. I would then make some breakfast, this strangely enough being my main meal of the day. I had a long piece of smoked bacon which despite a healthy beard of green mould lasted 5 weeks. Breakfast therefore usually consisted of muesli with hot milk (powdered) then some bacon chunks with a couple of eggs and a small tin of mushrooms all fried together. Then a small tin of fruit to finish. It sounds pretty horrible sitting here but after a night of interrupted sleep and sail changing I seem to remember it going down (and staying down) fairly well. After breakfast I would take my first sextant shot of the day in an effort to get a ninety degree azimuth, thus receiving an accurate longitude. I would then work the sight out, plot it on the chart, bring the D.R. up to date and write the log. That being done it was about mid-morning and the breakfast dishes would be staring me in the face. By the time I finished the cleaning of boat and self and, weather permitting, put sleeping bag etc. out to air, I was ready for a cuppa and then either lay in my bunk and read or sit in the cockpit. The next essential was the noon sight.
The noon sight accounts for about half an hour, after which a fix can be obtained by transferring the morning sight to the noon sight. A fix being obtained, I would often try and catch a couple of hours sleep in the afternoon. In the late afternoon I'd make a light meal of maybe a stew or some tuna-fish and try and get the boat tidied up before it became too dark. When it became too dark to read I would crawl into my bunk and attempt to get in as much sleep as possible through the night. There were very few days and nights when no sail handling or changing was required, so one must imagine this day's routine being interrupted at fairly regular intervals with the need to retrim for optimum course and speed.
The end of the third week found Songeur halfway across, on approximately the same latitude as the Azores but some 700 miles to the west. The sailing to date had been what I expected, almost entirely hard on the wind with the log registering 100 – 120 daily. We were now, however, entering an area of light winds as shown on their Lordships' charts for the month of July. The day after entering this area found Songeur in an absolute flat calm.
Calms are the most frustrating things for, although the wind dies and the sea becomes glassy, the swell persists. This sets up a fierce rolling motion. The ensuing noise is deafening, for with the boom sheeted in hard to stop it flogging the foot of the main cracks back and forward like a stockwhip, the radar clatters back and forward on the backstay and the headsail seems bent on self-destruction against every piece of standing rigging it can possibly come into contact with. Some say you can flap yourself slowly through a calm, but in my opinion the wear and tear on gear and nerves is not worth it. The result is I hand all sail and wait for a breeze.
The first of the calms lasted about 9 hours but when the wind returned it was both fair and slightly free so the next week was marvellous sailing. Progress was good, the air was warm, the sun shone and the ocean abounded with dolphins, seabirds and flying-fish. In short, it was the sort of sailing dreams are made of. It was much too good to last, which is probably why it didn't.
It ended quite abruptly when the wind went from 15 knots to zero in about ten minutes. The air was hot and lifeless, the swell long and glassy, the barometer was dropping and a bank of cirrus was advancing from the SW. There wasn't a seabird or fish in sight. It was as if all life had deserted the planet.
The calm lasted the entire day. The sea seemed to be in a state of tension as if it was not quite sure what was going to happen next.
I spent the day re-stowing lockers and checking their security. I stowed all loose gear and breakables. Stowed the No.1 genoa which was still hanked on to the forestay and hanked on the No. 3 jib and lashed it down to the toe-rail. I took the spitfire jib from up forward and stowed it on my bunk along with some dry clothes and my foul-weather gear. I checked the life-raft lashings, made sure a knife was handy, filled the thermos with soup then sat in the cockpit and waited. All the time it was hot and lifeless.
The wind returned as a gentle zephyr from the SW about an hour before dark. Songeur moved off under main and No.2 genoa. Within six or seven minutes the wind was 15 knots and Songeur was moving at top speed across a smooth sea. Five minutes later I had the No.2 genoa rolled away on the roller furling and the No.3 jib set on the outer forestay. The wind was around 25 knots, the sea was building and the boat was going like a missile. By now I was in my foulweather gear and clipped on. The water-tight door in the collision bulkhead I had closed, and it was very nearly dark. Songeur was starting to slam badly and had to be slowed down. I rolled the main into a very deep reef, sheeted the No.3 hard and noted in the log that it was a continuous 37-40 knots or gale force 8. The barometer was still dropping.
Under this much reduced sail-plan Songeur remained well balanced, sailing about 55 degrees off the wind, and the self steering gear was making an excellent job of managing the boat.
The seas were breaking continuously now but the boat was faring well although she still seemed to be travelling a little too fast. I crawled into my bunk, complete with oilers, at around 2200 hrs and listened to the racket going on outside. About ½ hour later there was a tremendous crash as a sea washed across the boat. I switched on the deck lights and went outside to find the self-steering vane had been smashed and carried away but all else seemed to be in order. I handed the main completely – and let her run off another five degrees under No.3 jib alone. By midnight the anemometer was hovering around 50 knots, the No.3 jib had been handed and Songeur was laying ahull under bare poles with the helm lashed down. That may all sound an easy business, but anyone who has crawled around the heaving, submerged foredeck of an A 24 in an Atlantic gale, trying to hand a headsail which is crackling fit to take your head off, will know it takes a little longer to do than it does to write about it. This was definitely NOT the sort of sailing dreams are made of! The gale continued through the night and the state of the boat below was miserable to say the least, as it was now fairly damp and the motion was so violent as to be physically exhausting. I found myself in the ridiculous position of continuously apologising to Songeur for not being able to help her in the fight and at the same time saying “well done and keep it up”, rather like a comical boxing manager saying “atta' boy, don't let 'em scare you”.
The dawn brought with it a scene I shall never forget. The seas were all breaking continuously, their crests vaporising into spume and spray as the top of each was sheared off by the wind. The sky was a leaden grey and the sea streaked with hagged rows of spindrift. A gale at sea is a frightening but beautiful thing, unfortunately in my case, it's a little more frightening than it is beautiful.
The gale continued all through the day and I eyed the barometer anxiously, but it seemed to have no interest in rising ever again.
Late in the afternoon the wind seemed to drop a little to gale 8 so I decided to set my tiny spitfire jib in an effort to reach across the depression and hopefully into moderating weather. After setting the spitfire jib the boat was labouring so I decided to hand it almost immediately. When I got back to the cockpit I knelt down to unclip my harness as it had fouled a sheet and was preventing my entering the cabin.
While kneeling in the cockpit I looked up to see a great hook of green water about to curl over the boat. This sea stood head and shoulders above anything else around, was travelling like an express train and was about to break. There was absolutely no way that Songeur was going to rise to it. I dropped the carbine hook of my harness, grabbed the port lower guard-rail and ducked down behind the cockpit coaming to avoid the inevitable impact. I remember thinking in this split second “sh......, this is going to be interesting”. When the sea hit, Songeur never had a chance to move sideways and absorb the blow but simply rolled over depositing me in the ocean still hanging onto the guard rail. When I came to the surface she had settled upside down with her keel in the air. It was at this time I experienced one of the stranger human reactions to stress for my immediate thought was how rusty the bottom of the keel had become where it had missed getting painted, now clearly visible several feet above the water. Songeur stayed inverted for, I should think, about two seconds after the sea had passed then very smartly rolled upright pulling me back into the cockpit laying face down and spluttering like a landed fish. I looked to the rig feeling certain I would find the mast over the side but to my utter amazement the mast was still standing. I couldn't believe my luck. Had I had any sail set I'm certain it would have cost me the mast.
The cockpit was full of water to the level of the genoa winches but was draining quite quickly. When I opened the hatch for a look below, however, I stopped feeling quite so lucky. Washing up and down on the cabin sole in about 8 inches of water were my charts, books, bedding, dry (?) clothes, pots, pans, cutlery, tools, in fact everything which hadn't been bolted down. A box of cornflakes had burst open and spread itself throughout the cabin like confetti and on top of all this lot was a book called “Handling Small Boats in Heavy Weather”.
I pumped the boat dry in about four minutes, wrung out my sleeping bag, arranged it as best I could in my bunk and climbed in, immediately dropping into an exhausted sleep.
The following day the gale blew itself out as gales always do, but it had cost me three days' progress and I was now seriously worried as to whether or not I could complete the course in 50 days, thus qualifying as a finisher.
The next few days showed good mileage with only about 600 miles to the finish. The wind was fair and steady from the SW and I was able to lay a straight course for Newport. The Gulf Stream was coming up and it was essential the wind held while I crossed this unpredictable 1½ – 2 knot current. The fair breeze continued till I was half way across the Gulf Stream – then stopped, completely, for two bloody days. Halfway through the second day's calm I wrote in the log that I had missed the 50-day limit, still with 400 miles to go and only 3 days to do it. The water tank had run dry and I was now using the one gallon emergency supply. The stream had already carried me back towards England sixty odd miles. I tried using a sweep made from a spinnaker pole and a spare plywood self-steering vane but found it too exhausting in the heat, especially as I was trying to conserve water. The frustration was beyond measure.
When the wind returned it was about 8 knots from the SE or dead astern. I rushed forward for the spinnaker and had it set with the usual 150 trips back and forward from the cockpit. Then the main. The boat was making good speed through a smooth sea. I calculated I had to make good 5 knots from my last fix to Newport to finish. It was improbable but not impossible. With a fighting chance remaining I grabbed the ghoster out of the sail locker and set it as a big boy outside the spinnaker. The speed on the sumlog was a steady 6½; the sea was glassy smooth and Songeur had the bit between the teeth. The self steering gear obviously thought we'd gone mad and refused to have anything to do with the whole operation. This meant I had to helm the boat. There were a million stars out to steer by. The night was warm and the sea about as rough as the Serpentine. I sat at the helm through the night watching the miles tick up and listening to a New York radio station, while the quarter wave tried to catch the transom. Songeur was moving at absolutely top speed with 660 square feet of lightweight sail set.
By morning I was across the Stream into the cold Labrador current. Fog set in and visibility was about 100 yards. The wind went a little west of south so I handed the ghoster and let her run off on a spinnaker reach. If this weather held I still had a chance. Around mid-morning on the 48th day, I picked up Nantucket Light Vessel on the seafix and began to home on the signal, as visibility was still about 100 yards. In the afternoon I heard the light vessel's foghorn and sighted her about half an hour later.
100 miles to go and just over a day remaining - it was looking good.
The wind continued to move to the west. The reach became too shy for the spinnaker as it was handed and the No.1 genoa set. Fog persisted. The morning of the 49th day brought heavy squally rain which did little to disperse the fog. I was navigating by RDF and although land was only a few miles to leeward visibility was still bad.
Eventually after
working my way into Block Island sound using three beacons I picked up the
Bruton Reef marker beacon; the finish
line, less than 4 miles ahead in the fog.
Superb account showing the ability of the boat to cope and the bravery and toughness of the skipper. All A24 owners should read and learn from this account of how the boat behaves in high winds and rough seas.
ReplyDelete