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The trouble really started when we ran out of wind just a couple of days out of Horta, the Azores. My husband Peter and myself were sailing our Laurent Giles Ocean 42 ketch Pelikan, having started our trip from Australia about a year earlier. Now we were very much looking forward to seeing our relatives in England, and also later on in Sweden. We had to start running the engine to keep moving forward, and continued to do so for nearly three days and nights. At that stage we were getting nervous about the risk of running out of fuel, as we wanted to have plenty to spare for later possible developments before reaching Falmouth. From a full tank, plus two jerry cans, we reckon on about five days' worth of motoring. We were very relieved when the wind started blowing from the east and allowing us to enjoy about 24 hours of reaching in perfect conditions, with nearly flat seas. If only sailing was always like that! We had been religiously listening to the 'weather guru' Herb every evening to assess the weather situation and knew the wind was going to back and increase to gale force. There were several yachts doing the same trip as we were, having left Horta at approximately the same time, and we were keeping regular radio contact with some of them. Herb is an amazing character who spends several hours every evening of the week, talking to yachts and, free of charge, explaining the weather situation to them and giving advice about the best routes. He transmits from the United States, but we were still able to pick up his signal this far across the North Atlantic, which proved very useful. So we prepared for the rough weather, reducing sail to a minimum and making sure everything below was secured. For about two days and nights we had to suffer very uncomfortable conditions, with the wind on the nose and not making more than 3 knots. We had been through several gales before, but this one was on the nose and therefore particularly tiring. Being in contact with other boats was certainly a comfort, even though we were all worried about the same thing: Once this gale was over, were we going to make it to Falmouth before the next one struck, allowing for the fact that we had all been using more diesel than we would have liked to. When the wind gradually eased, it was still from the north-east, and in these lighter conditions, it was impossible to lay the right course. For the next twentyfour hours our course was about ninety degrees off to the west. Feeling rather relieved to have more comfortable conditions, we cheered ourselves up by chatting to other boats on the radio. At this stage there were several of us within VHF range, which was quite enjoyable. We were able to commiserate about the conditions and how some of us were running out of essential provisions, like chocolate. Finally, the wind backed enough for us to be able to change tack. With mainsail, slightly furled genoa and mizzen we were pleased to be able to do over 5 knots in the right direction to Falmouth. We now had about 500 miles to get there and felt pretty confident of making it before the next depression was due to track through us. Just before dawn, exactly one week out of Horta, when the wind eased further, Peter decided to unfurl the genoa completely. That's when it happened. There was a loud banging noise from the rigging, and the genoa started flapping. Peter went up to the foredeck to try to work out what had happened. Our worst fears were confirmed. The headstay had broken off. Peter quickly took our two spare halyards forward and clipped them onto the bow sprit: our new 'headstay' was in place. "I'll have to climb up the mast to see if I can repair it," he told me. I could feel the blood drain from my face at the thought of him climbing up there while we were out at sea. I had often assisted him with this task at port before, but that didn't seem half as scary. Not for me, anyway. He put his climbing harness on, armed himself with a shackle, a pair of pliers and a piece of wire and clipped himself onto a spare halyard. Then he climbed up the main mast via the foldable mast steps (which have proven very practical) while I hauled on the halyard. It didn't take him long to assess the situation and get down again. "It's the stay itself that's broken. I can't repair it," was his piece of bad news for the morning. The first thing to do was to try to furl the genoa on the Harken self furler, in spite of the broken headstay. Fortunately, this turned out not to be a problem. Secondly, we had to lower the whole assembly and secure it down along the side deck. After getting various halyards on the wrong side of each other and having to untangle them again, this manoeuvre wasn't too difficult either. Next. Peter put a double reef in the mainsail, so that the top of it was at the same level as the inner forestay, which was still alive and well. Then we put up the staysail which hanks onto the inner forestay. This would then act as another force pulling the mast for-ward, as well as giving us some more speed than sailing with just the reefed main and mizzen. After all that work, we felt reasonably happy with the situation and went down below for a hearty and well-earned breakfast of porridge and honey. At the time for the next radio sched, we informed our radio friends of the situation, explaining to them that, if only the wind would keep blowing from the right direction, we should be fine. A head-on wind, however, could mean a minor disaster. If only we had had enough diesel to motor the rest of the way, we would have no worries. Half jokingly, Peter suggested that perhaps somebody might have a bit of spare fuel for us. The skipper on Victoria Vision very kindly offered us some of his. He thought he could afford to give us about thirty litres We thanked him but told him he might need it himself, and anyway, it would still not be enough for us to make it all the way. Then he offered to contact Falmouth coastguard with his Immarsat to inform them of our situation and ask if there was anything they could do. Naturally, we gratefully agreed. "Why cant we contact them ourselves, on the HF radio?" I wondered, but apparently it would be too difficult to get hold of them, even on the emergency frequencies, as that whole system of twentyfour hours listening is being abandoned, to be replaced by the DSC system, for which you need a degree in computing to operate, it seems. Strange how the previous, perfectly simple, safety net for mariners has had to give way to technology. In backwater Australia, developments haven't gone quite that far yet, and while sailing along the entire east coast of that continent, we were regularly able to pick up weather forecasts from Brisbane. (Mind you, the weather forecasts weren't always particularly accurate!) Other boats were also very kind and supporting to us over the radio. The skipper on Orn-eyrie offered to give us some beer if we happened to run out of that commodity before land fall! That evening when we listened to Herb's weather prognosis, we were a little disconcerted to find out that the wind was likely to ease again and stay light for at least two days, and at the same time there was another gale approaching from the west. The next time we had contact with Victoria Vision, they had calculated that they could probably afford to let us have about forty litres of diesel from them, which would help at least. They also told us that Falmouth Coast Guard were trying to locate a commercial vessel that might be able to let us have some diesel. It cheered us up no end to know that so many people wanted to look after us. The coast guard had also said something about helicopter rescue, which we felt was somewhat excessive. "Don't tell them," Peter told Victoria Vision, "but we built this boat ourselves, and I'm not stepping off it until it's sinking!" But he said we would be very grateful for the extra fuel, and we would try to catch them up. They were about two hours ahead of us at that stage. We put up our asymmetric spinnaker. which pushed our speed up to 6 knots. By this stage, the wind had veered and was on our starboard quarter, which seemed safe enough, even with our makeshift arrangements. In the afternoon, Victoria Vision came back to us over the radio to tell us that they had decided to turn around and meet us, so that the transfer of fuel tanks could be performed in daylight. Overwhelmed by this kindness we couldn't really stop them. although we felt pretty guilty about delaying another yacht, and maybe putting them in danger, too. But I suppose this is what "'buddy sailing" is all about. We exchanged information of our co-ordinates and proceeded to a common waypoint. Soon after that, the wind increased a little and we were forced to take the spinnaker down again. as we were being overpowered at each gust. In the early evening, I spotted a little dark speck on the horizon ahead of us, and about an hour later, Pelikan and Victoria Vision were face to face for the first time. It was not going to be the last. We exchanged polite comments of the beauty of each other's boats before getting down to business. The next question was: how do you transfer two jerry cans from one yacht to another out in the middle of the ocean? As Victoria Vision 's skipper pointed out, there were probably about as many solutions to that problem as there were heads on the two boats. He had, however, decided how he wanted to do it. "We have tied the two cans together and attached a float with a short piece of rope. We will lower them in the water about a hundred yards ahead of you and then move away for you to pick them up." Seemed simple enough, so we cheerfully agreed. Both boats were still sailing without running their engines. I disconnected our windvane steering and took my position at the helm, while Peter went forward and picked up the boat hook. Soon 1 could see something orange in the water, and Victoria Vision moved away to the south. I took a large swing out to port to give myself enough room to luff up. When we were about fifty yards away from the target. I steered to starboard, heading straight for it. Peter had the boat hook poised. Seconds later he had both fuel cans on the side deck. It had been a close thing, as I had lost sight of the target when it came close to us, and had allowed to boat to stall a little too early. I sent a grateful thought back to our time in Sydney waters immediately after the launch of Pelikan, when we had spent several weeks learning how to handle our new boat in the beautiful, sheltered bays, where there are numerous public buoys, free for all. That's where we had been practising our skills at picking up buoys. Mission accomplished, both yachts set course for Falmouth once again. Five minutes later, Victoria Vision came back on the radio again to tell us that Falmouth Coast Guard had located a tanker in our vicinity that was willing to let us have a few cans of diesel. "What do you want to do?" "I think we should accept the offer. Then we would be able to give you back your fuel if needs be." We had to wait a few hours before we were within VHF contact of the tanker Naparirna, approaching us from the south on their way to England. The captain's voice was friendly and reassuring. "When I see you on my radar, I'll light up like a Christmas tree so you can see me." "Thank you, that will be very nice." We took down all our sails and started the engine. By this stage, it was just past midnight and very dark. but the wind was light and the sea reasonably calm. When the tanker came closer, we were very impressed. It Was Big. The captain calmly explained his intentions. His solution to the problem of how to transfer the goodies was slightly different from how we had done it before. They were going to lay down a long line with floats on the end, and after we had picked it up, they would continue feeding it out, with the cans tied on to it at a comfortable spacing. "You just have to wait for me to stop my ship. It takes a bit of time," he added. When we could see that the huge tanker was stationary, we proceeded towards it, me at the helm and Peter ready on the foredeck, same procedure as last time. It seemed like an eternity before we reached the lit-up float at the end of the line. The ship had been further away than it looked. Peter managed to pick up the thick line at the first attempt (of course) and started hauling it in. It was long. There was hardly space for it on the foredeck by the time the first fuel can reached us. I had put the engine into neutral to avoid any trouble with the propeller, and Peter had a bit of a battle, hauling Pelikan in towards the rope as well. While mainly concentrating on what was going on in the water, I occasionally glanced up at the tanker, wondering why I couldn't see any crew members on the deck. Surely, they would be watching with interest? Their aft deck was well lit up, which made it difficult to make out the shapes up there. Finally, I realized that the whole aft deck was lined with people, only they were about a third of the size I had imagined Again, I had underestimated the distance between the tanker and us, and hence the size of the ship. It Was Immense. By the time Peter had brought the five diesel cans aboard and let the crew on the tanker haul back the line, he was very warm and tired. He spoke to the captain on the radio again and thanked him for all the help. We had already been told we could keep the containers, so that was an extra bonus. We turned to port and motored away from the massive tanker, and it also started moving away. Peter secured the containers and put up the staysail and mizzen again. From now on we would motor sail all the way to Falmouth and reckoned on about another sixty hours to go. Pretty exhausted, we resumed our watch keeping routine, and Peter was allowed to have a well-earned sleep, the first one for a long time. At the next morning's radio sched, we told Victoria Vision that they could have their fuel back! Their diesel tanks were still standing untouched. They were probably more relieved about that than they admitted over the radio. As we were using the engine, we would have no trouble catching up with them, so at least they didn't have to turn around to meet us this time. While we sped towards them, we transferred the diesel we had received from the tanker, taking care not to use the bottom ten percent in each can, as the captain of Naparima had warned us that the fuel was probably not perfectly clean. The containers had been standing on our cockpit floor to let the dirt settle. Mid morning, we met up with Victoria Vision again, and using the same procedure as last time, we passed their cans back to them. This time the seas had increased a little, so it actually took them a couple of attempts before they managed to bring the cans aboard. Mission accomplished, the two yachts set course for Falmouth once again. I gave Peter an impish smile, went to the VHF radio and used our normal calling routine: "Victoria Vision, Victoria Vision; this is Pelikan, over." "Pelikan, this is Victoria Vision. Channel 06." "06. Victoria Vision; this is Pelikan." "Yes, Pelikan?" "That was so much fun, let's do it again!" "Ha-ha-ha, yes, and why don't we pass other items across to each other?" "That's an idea, how's the chocolate situation, for instance?" Two days later, Falmouth was invaded by a fleet of yachts arriving from the Azores, well before the gale arrived. Orn-eyrie still had some beer left, Victoria Vision's chocolate supply just held good, and Pelikan's mast was still intact. e-mail: info@harbourmarine.uk.com or write to HMS Ltd, Blackshore, Southwold Harbour, Southwold, Suffolk IP18 6TA | |||||||||||||||||