A voyage from Townsville, Australia to Whitby, England
September 1987 to June 1988
The Start: Townsville to Cooktown
I decided to do a circumnavigation, “some day”, many years ago, but the business of raising a family and earning a living have always caused me to put off the day. However, on passing 50 I began to feel that I should do it soon and the final motivator was seeing an obituary for a “Norman Taylor” in the Courier Mail. This account is made up from the Log of the trip and articles written for Townsville Yacht Club. It should be pointed out that due to financial constraints the yacht had only watch and sextant for navigation and no furling headsail and that many of the sails were quite old.
Having decided that it was now or never, I carefully selected a yacht that was affordable and looked as if it might go the distance. My final selection was an S & S 34 and I was heartened to read two months later, that Jon Sanders had already completed a singlehanded double non-stop circumnavigation in a similar yacht.
Next, I had to negotiate leave of absence from my school (St. Patrick’s) which the good nuns eventually granted. With that hurdle crossed, the problems were largely financial and logistical. I began by organising all the charts (after selecting the route) and procuring sufficient stores to last until we entered the Mediterranean Sea. The planned route on the outward leg to England will be Townsville → Cooktown → Thursday Island → Darwin → Cocos-Keeling Islands → Maldives → Djibouti → Port Sudan → Suez Canal → Crete → Sicily → Gibraltar → Falmouth → Whitby.
Well, departure day on September 9th, 1987 came all too soon – we were still mounting the 6 man life raft on the morning of departure. I would have preferred to have left Townsville from a visitor’s berth at the Townsville Motor Boat Club, but alas there were no berths available due to the Game Fishing Club competition, so I left from the Breakwater Marina. I must say that they treated me very well and put on a champagne and streamer farewell. It was a slightly groggy crew which cast off its lines at 1410 and headed north!
Cheryl could not get leave from her University until December and I wanted to be clear of Australia earlier so I had crew help to Darwin by Rowan Frost (my cousin). Rowan had very limited sailing experience and no familiarity with “WHITBY LASS”. So it was with some trepidation that we put out into a 15kt SE wind with a forecast to 25 kts and 2.5 metre seas. I had encouraged him to take a Dramamine pill two hours before the start and these proved very effective in that he was not sick. With the yacht under Plastimo auto-pilot and sailing N towards Orchard Rocks, we hoisted full main and set No. 1 as our course would be largely downwind once around the Rocks. I carry an 800 sq. ft. M.P.S. but in view of the crew’s inexperience decided to use a poled-out No. 1.
Once around the Rocks and with sails trimmed, we surged north, helped by wind and sea with the log swinging between 5 and 8 knots. The miles clicked merrily away on the log and soon we were abeam of Albino Rock and the first 35 miles were over. From then on we settled into our 2 on 2 off, watch system and let the auto pilot do the work. The watch simply had to adjust sails and log the lights and islands which steadily came abeam. We were off Dunk Island at 10/0450 and at 10/1419, just 24 hours after slipping our lines, were abeam Fitzroy Island off Cairns. The wind and sea reached maximum and we shortened sail, trying various combinations to reduce yaw – a bad habit of any fin-keeled yacht going directly down-wind, but it wasn’t really bad and the auto-pilot never lost lock.
Disaster nearly struck us at 11/0500! At that time I had identified Hope Island and was trying to pick up leads on Rocky Islet and Archer Pt. The channel between the mainland and Gubbins Reef is about 1.5 miles wide. The lights which I could see did not match my expectations from the chart and I came within an ace of running into Gubbins Reef. It transpired that although my charts were supposed to be updated, they did not show that Rocky Islet light has been removed and that the Racon on Gubbins had been replaced with a light. After a scare such as that we shortened sail, slowed down and limped into Cooktown.
Nevertheless, it had been a remarkably fast trip given that Rowan and I had sailed only about 20 miles together before starting, and the fact that the yacht is carrying 1.3 tonnes of stores, diesel and water. We dropped the pick in a 4 metre hole off the wharf at Cooktown at 11/1310, 47 hours from Townsville.
Since that time I have had all the charts to Darwin checked, courtesy of Reg Ward in Townsville and discovered 8 errors in either location of light or timing/colour pattern. It just goes to show – you can’t be too careful and you should buy new charts not use unchecked old ones. It was only that I could not afford new charts which meant we sailed with old updated charts. We are resting in Cooktown until Friday 18th September to take part in some Bicentennial publicity, and we then leave for Thursday Island and Darwin. Rowan was by now 100% improved and keen to resume the journey.
Cooktown to Darwin
I returned to Cooktown from Townsville by the bone‑shaking Cairns – Cooktown bus and was glad to be back aboard the “Lass”. We tied up at the fuel wharf, laid in a few cold tinnies and some fresh food, attended the farewell speeches, photographs and presentations from Cooktown dignitaries of the Bi-Centennial Committee, and then sailed off at 1700 hours on September 18th, bound for Thursday Island and Darwin.
The wind was 15-18 knots SE and we had an excellent run to Lizard Island being abeam their light (Palfrey Island) at 19/0035. I then set course for Howick Island Light, but could not see this light when expected as we then started to experience increasing wind, low cloud and light rain. We must have been under the influence of a NNE set as at 19/0520 I was horrified to feel us hit an outlying bommie off Fly Reef which my dead reckoning and back bearings should have put me 3 miles from. Fortunately, having scared me stiff and brought the crew to instant life, we moved off the reef and continued. A hurried inspection showed that we were not taking water. But what a scare I had been given. This experience was to set my nerves on edge for the next few days, as unbeknown to me, a 1030 mB high pressure system was going to send us a bit more sea and wind than I would have liked.
Ideally, one should not sail in the reef strewn areas which abound north of Lizard Island at night, especially when not equipped with electronic navigation and using 10 year old charts which may, or may not be correctly updated, but at the time it was all that I could afford. Yet I was required to get the yacht to Darwin and fly back to Townsville by the end of the school holidays and teach most of the last half term, so I had to keep going wherever possible but the reef experience so un-nerved me that I would not pass through the Howicke Islands in the dark and instead sailed to and fro over the same water until dawn. With sunrise, we sailed as fast as possible in the 10 knot Easterly, but as the sun started to sink in the West, the spectres of the previous night came to haunt me and I decided to anchor off Stanley Island in Princess Charlotte Bay. There we had an excellent meal with a good bottle of vintage claret and turned in early. Before dawn I made contact on the ham radio with VK4WL on Thursday Island and sent a message to all our relatives that we were safe and we left anchorage in the pre-dawn and sailed in light winds under spinnaker until just after Hannah Island. Then in the space of 1 hour the wind was blowing 20 knots SE and we were doing 7 knots under No. 2 jib poled out. Wind and sea built up and we moved so fast (8 knots) that we could afford to anchor over night which we did on the 21st at Morris Island. But here we had our second shake-up!
The wind was now gusting to 30 knots and bullets over this quite low island shook the yacht until the cups rattled in the cup holder. At about 8pm, we were both below, when the changed motion of the yacht made me realise that we had dragged anchors (I had both out in the form of a V). I started the motor and raised one anchor, but in raising the second anchor the warp of the first anchor was knocked overboard in the dark and wrapped around the prop, stalling the diesel. We are now drifting SW in the grip of wind and tide.
Had there been a lee shore close by, the voyage of the “Whitby Lass” might have ended unhappily – but we had heaps of sea room and two lights in view to establish our position. Rowan bravely went over the side in quite rough conditions, with safety harnesses and a long lifeline, armed with the sharpest knife on the yacht, and after many dives, working by touch with the yacht rising and falling about 5 feet in the swell, he cut off all the warp from around the prop-shaft. As I had 500 metres of spare anchor warp, there was no problem.
We started the motor and as I had my daylight entry into the Morris Island bay well marked on the chart, we were able to make the same position line approach. This time I put both anchors in tandem on the one warp with a 20mm silver rope and they bit and held. (I am thankful that I did not economise of the amount of spare rope I sailed with). Nevertheless we stood a 1 hour anchor watch throughout that night.
The next day, Tuesday September 22nd, we sailed off early and ran to Portland Roads in a very short time and anchored overnight. Townsville sailors may be interested in knowing that there is a permanently anchored bowser barge dispensing diesel, petrol, cold beer and cigarettes, and naturally the place is anchorage for dozens of trawlers.
We left the Roads at 0230 and ran on in strong winds, but with sudden rain squalls which dropped visibility to 100 metres, filling this sailor with dread that we were actually off course and sailing blind straight for the nearest reef. Eventually, we decided to drop the pick at Bird Island, where we clung in a 1 metre swell as the tide surged over the surrounding reef. An uncomfortable night with an hourly anchor watch but we did not move. We left on the 24th at 0640 with only a No. 2 poled out headsail still pushing us at 6-7 knots. We sailed close in towards the Escape River as a place of possible overnight shelter, but the crashing seas at the entrance put me off in spite of Alan Lucas’s recommendation that it was a comfortable overnight anchorage. What a cowardly (perhaps I should say hyper-cautious) sailor I have become!
So we decided to spend the night in the lee of Mt. Adolphus Island and crammed on extra sail for a wild ride in order to arrive before dark. Alas, even this respite was not to be, as dark was falling fast as we felt our way towards the bay and rest. In my mind’s eye, I could see a bay full of bommies waiting to rip open the hull, and so with deep regret (as we were both quite tired) we moved out into the seaway again – if you aren’t sure of what is poking up from the bottom it’s better to be out at sea.
During the next 24 hours the weather worsened. We mapped out a 10 mile “area of safety” in which to sail back and forth all night. The only hazard was the unlit rock (Alpha Rock) which was in the centre of our area. We were able to avoid the rock by bearings on Eborac Island light on the tip of Cape York. But it was quite a night, 30 knots steady and even stronger gusts, 4 metre seas and intermittent rain – neither of us could sleep, as we tacked sometimes and ran others, forward and back all night. Gallons of tea were drunk and cans of baked beans consumed cold and direct from the tin.
Came the dawn, and we squared away for Thursday Island where we dropped the picks in a rough and exposed anchorage off the public jetties at 1150 am on Friday the 25th September. A quick trip ashore for milk and food, and we flew at 11 knots for the exit from the Torres Strait (6 knots from the sails and 5 knots from the tide).
From now on the weather moderated, the seas dropped quickly to 1 metre and shipboard life returned to normal. What a difference it makes to one’s mental peace to be sailing in open waters without reefs to the left and the right! I am not nervous when sailing a well-found yacht in rough seas having been in the Southern Ocean in a Sydney-Rio race in 1982 but reef areas spook me somewhat. So we crammed on sail and did nearly 300 miles in 46 hours, the various Capes (Wessel, New Year, Croker and Don) quickly came abeam, but the wind was dropping all the time and we motor sailed through the islands in Van Diemen Gulf.
The 1st of October saw us in the vicinity of Darwin and having talked to the very helpful VID Darwin Radio and Darwin Port Authority we anchored overnight in Frances Bay. A slap up feed at a good hotel restored our morale and we quickly forgot the near disasters we had escaped. Rowan left the yacht with my hearty thanks and I left Whitby Lass to swing at anchor until November 1st, when I will clear customs and set sail for the Cocos Islands single-handed to await the arrival of Cheryl. There are no appreciable navigational hazards between Darwin and the Cocos Islands.
I did not go in the Marina as intended because you HAVE to have ONE MILLION DOLLARS in Third Party Insurance and to have taken out T.P.I. would have cost me $258 (a year’s premium) which was ridiculous. I had to return to Townsville and school to complete my term of teaching so took a plane back to there and left the Lass to take care of herself. I hope that I am not boring you with this narrative. If not, more will appear in December.
Darwin to Cocos-Keeling Islands
Darwin was hot and sticky during our time there and being forced to anchor 1 mile offshore did not endear me to the place, so it was without regrets that departure day, November 2nd dawned. I had got away from my High School job early by completing all class exams and started my unpaid leave. I took the bus from Townsville to Darwin to save money. I was about early on the morning of the 2nd, buying fruit, vegetables and eggs, visiting the duty free store and moving to the fuel and customs clearance wharf. The price of Black Douglas Scotch is $7.10 a litre duty free, so I took quite a few bottles and several cartons of cigarettes as “sweeteners” for officials in the more remote countries.
Australian customs were very helpful in our clearance, and I was wished Bon Voyage by Darwin Radio, and the Port Authority. So with all tanks full, two cases of XXXX beer in the ice box, and hoping that my navigation would allow me to find the Cocos Islands (which measure only 8 miles by 6 and have nothing higher than a palm tree), I sailed away at 1400 hours.
For navigation, I have a hand-held radio-compass which operates on long and medium wave, a Seiko 100 watch set to GMT and a backup digital stopwatch, a Frieberger sextant, a set of H0229 tables and a Hewett Packard 41C calculator with a nav-pac. This latter will do a sunsight reduction in 60 seconds. It will also calculate way points; these are latitudes and longitudes about 150 miles apart, along the way to your destination via the shortest possible distance along the great circle joining the start and finish of legs of the voyage.
So I set our course for the first of those way points in the Arafura Sea in a 10 kt NNW wind, and sailed easily at 5 kts on flat seas under No. 1 and main sails.
I chatted to a radio ham in Melbourne and played over old chess games to try to better my game, but truth to tell I am feeling rather lonely and a little worried about missing the Cocos Islands – I have not done an ocean crossing and been out of sight of land for so long depending only on my sextant, watch and tables. Anyway it was with a light wind astern and a calm sea that I steered 265°, and we saw the last of Australia with some mixed feelings at 1910 hours. If this trip goes its full distance, I shall not see dear Oz again until January 1989! I have two Plastimo AT50 autopilots powered by a 45 watt solar cell mounted atop our canopy and these latter proved their worth in the hot sun endured daily. The autopilot handles the yacht well in virtually all conditions except a big following sea – when it cannot control the yaw. But normally the watch has plenty of freedom.
Next day the wind continued light, and with the noon sun at 87° 19′, you can imagine that it was hot. As I had cleared the shipping lanes, I made a bed on the cockpit floor and slept intermittently through the nights. I had some new heavy duty fishing tackle which I streamed secured by a bicycle inner-tube as shock absorber but having lost two $10 lures to goodness knows what: it was just “stretch, bang, gone”, I decided not to fish for a while. Meantime the ship settled down into its own routine with which I complied, and the light winds and flat seas continued. Since leaving Darwin I had been trying to keep a ham radio schedule with a member of T.A.R.C. (Townsville Amateur Radio Club), but was unable to contact him. It’s a funny thing, radio, as I had no trouble talking to amateurs in Japan and the U.S., but to my friend in Townsville, no joy.
So day followed day, the winds stayed light swinging between WSW and S between 5 and15 knots, and nights were beautiful and moonlit, as I watched the moon chase Jupiter across the sky. By day, dolphins came, played, showed their tricks and swam on their sides to cast an eye on us, then swam off on dolphin business. As I entered the Indian Ocean the sea became an indigo blue, and I could not resist stopping the yacht for half an hour each noon and taking a dip—an eerie feeling knowing it’s 8,000 ft deep and maybe sharks have been tailing us, but I did it for 13 days without incident. I always streamed a lifebuoy ( the old fashioned circular kind) on a long warp astern whilst in the water in case of unforeseen incident, but of course, when you are prepared, none occur.
After the 10th of November, the wind increased to a fairly constant 20 knots on the beam, so we (the yacht and I) started to log daily runs of 140 miles, and this continued for several days until the day before we got to the Cocos, when we had a moderate storm with heavy rain and some good wind gusts. We also were showered with squid, about twenty of them came aboard early one morning, leaving black trails all over my well scrubbed teak deck and showering the bottom of the No. 1 headsail. I never got this ink out in spite of much effort.
Anyway, it was exciting (really, it was an enormous relief, and I leapt in the air with clenched fist shouting YES, YES!) to see the Cocos Islands (called the South Keeling Islands on the map to the left) raise their palm trees dead ahead and to sail along them trying to make sure where the entrance was. This wasn’t made easy because the “lighthouse” for which I was looking and which was shown on the chart (it was daylight) was simply a light on a slim pole and shorter than a palm tree. As there is only one entrance into the lagoon, it had to be right, so I took my time making sure that every mark bore correctly. So in I went and was soon shepherded to a quarantine island by a friendly customs launch. I was forbidden to go ashore until the next day, but needed a long sleep more than a run ashore, so didn’t mind. When I awoke we were alongside a beautiful coral island, Direction Island, the archetype of coral islands, green lagoon, palm trees and white sand – a cup of Twining’s tea and I was at peace with the world. It was November 20th 1987.
So here I stay in paradise, until December 8th, when my wife joins me for the trip to the Maldive Islands (SSW of Sri Lanka). The shortest distance Darwin to Cocos is 1985 miles, and we had covered this distance by sailing 2030 miles in 17 days and 2 hours. So you can see we didn’t do much tacking.
Now farewell until the Maldives, which we will reach after Christmas, so think of us dining on tinned spam and ship’s biscuits, whilst you are wolfing your ham and turkey at the Club Christmas Party! And I leave you with this little poem:
To sail the seas some think a toil,
Some think it strange abroad to roam,
Some think it grief to leave their soil,
Their parents, kinfolk and their home,
But the spirit moves me, like it or not,
So I must sail and try my lot!
NORMAN TAYLOR
22nd November 1987
Cocos-Keeling Islands to the Maldives
“Whitby Lass” and I were well treated in the Cocos Islands and enjoyed the rest, but the yacht seemed anxious to not grow any weed on her bottom. We were eager to be off and the “Lass” started jerking her chain like a dog at the leash. When my wife, Cheryl, flew in and we could take off on the next leg to the Maldive Islands. Cheryl had not been able to sail with me from Townsville due to work commitments at her University, but arrived as soon as she could.
The Cocos Islands lie at approximately 12° S and the Maldives are at 4 degrees N which requires of course that we cross the equator. My Hewlett Packard calculator computed the great circle course and way points and indicated a course for most of the journey of about 310° and a total distance of 1785 miles to be sailed mostly in the Doldrums, which according to my guidebooks are an area principally of calms at this time of year.
Such did not prove to be the case and we sailed 2280 miles in 20 days to cover this journey, through seas which were never calm, and in fact gave us the steadiest winds experienced since leaving Townsville. After this time my ham radio permanently packed-up so my only communication was VHF with a masthead antenna.
We had checked with the aviation department on the Cocos for a weather forecast and were handed a fax before leaving, which showed nothing unusual in our area, and were quite surprised when saying our final radio farewells to Radio Cocos, only some 8 hours and 40 miles later, we heard that a cyclone advisory warning was out for the area, and that although it was 300 miles away, it was moving SE in our general direction.
This information caused me to depart from the course I had worked out and to head due North as fast as possible – the reason being that cyclones are virtually unknown north of 5°S, so we sailed N as fast as possible in considerable discomfort. It was not until 48 hours later that I received the next report advising that the depression had deepened to 972 mb and changed course to SW. It eventually became a full blooded cyclone in the SW and roared off to Africa well away from us, but by that time I had been heading due N for 50 hours and got well away from my designated course. Nor was it possible to get back onto course as for the next 18 days we were close hauled and butting our way against a WNW wind. My log shows that we did 1680 miles on the starboard tack – the longest of any sail that I have ever been on the same tack.
Of course, the wind strength and sea conditions varied substantially during this time and occasionally the wind blew fair, allowing us to at least head more directly towards our destination as we had already done all the Northing needed. When it first started, I wasn’t bothered as I expected a period of calms as we closed the Equator and had loads of extra fuel for that eventuality, but day after day the Northwest winds continued.
We crossed the Equator on the 18th December at about 2130 and I had a solitary drink in the cockpit being the only person awake. I had intended to make my wife experience initiation ceremonies (I have crossed the line under sail previously and suffered the various indignities which this entails.), but we were both so tired from constant work and all the bunks and clothes on the yacht were well soaked, so I took pity on her and did not insist on obeisance to Neptune. It must have been this lapse which drew his ire and made him send a storm our way the very next day!
At first the sea got up much higher than the wind in our area indicated, then the water made big slow moving terraces and the sea birds that were flying along the tops, vanished into the hollows. It was near dusk and a long low black line working its way towards us was my last sight as darkness fell. It seemed like a night loaded with omens and when heavy rain arrived before, not after, the wind, I knew we were in for a beating. When the rain stopped, the grieving sky uttered a great bursting sweep of wind, with nothing to stop it for a thousand miles in any direction.
Below, the sounds of wind and sea could be heard as moans above an artillery barrage as the waves assaulted the bow. On deck during some high sustained gusts, the spume sprayed green and pink past the port and starboard lights. It has been said that there are things about the sea that only a man (or woman) who has felt them can describe and no-one who has not known them can understand—I have done my best to describe the storm, which had some really fierce if short lived squalls within it, and know my fellow sailors will understand.
And then at dawn there came a lull and the waves no longer bore down on us from one direction, but simply butted us and each other as they jigged around through all points of the compass. As dawn broke the whole eastern sky was glowing with an orange tinge, while every fleecy cloud which had looked black and threatening before dawn now assumed a tint of gold or red or pink, and life soon settled into its pre-storm routine. That’s life at sea – it isn’t storm after storm at all, but when they come they are exciting and you have to cope.
Christmas Day we had tinned ham and plum pudding with a bottle of vintage red and decorated the cabin, but we had been at sea working fairly hard for 17 days and were rather subdued for the festive season, so were eagerly anticipating our landfall at Male, capital of the Maldives. This does not have any kind of electronic lighthouse marker and is a reef strewn coral atoll, so I was relieved to see the lights of the town come up after only having difficult sextant shots (due to the swell and yacht’s motion) to establish our latitude.
The Islamic Republic of the Maldives. You can see the lagoon entrance just N of Male the capital.
Male is very poverty stricken and not the best place to bring a yacht. I should have heeded Alan Lucas’ advice in his cruising book and gone to Galle in Sri Lanka. We have to anchor miles from town and the water is 250 ft deep 50 yards offshore. Anyway that’s the voyage so far, and you’ll hear more about the next leg to Djibouti on the Horn of Africa in the next Club magazine.
Maldive Islands to Djibouti, Africa
Our stay in the Maldive Islands was not pleasant due to the distance which we had to stay away from the town, and the depth of the water in the lagoon. This meant that we had to cling precariously to the edge of the reef using a stern anchor to stop us washing onto the reef when the tide changed. In retrospect it would have been wise to have heeded Lucas’s advice and by-passed the Maldives in favour of either Cochin in India or Galle in Sri Lanka. Speaking to other yachties later, in the Red Sea, we learned that once you had paid the bribes to officials, Galle was an excellent place to stay, and seemed to be recommended by all.
Anyway, by New Year’s Eve we had had enough of Male and the Maldives and official corruption which always required bribes to get anything done: for instance, the lengthy clearance which took a day and a half and involved several instances of bribery for officials to complete the duties for which they are no doubt paid. Finally, we up-anchored at 3pm and sailed off for Africa in a light and favourable NE wind.
In order to clear the Maldives, which consist of a 500 mile long string of coral atolls, we had to find a wide exit, as there are only 4 lighthouses along the entire chain and whatever time we left we would have to do some sailing in the dark. We picked an exit which was about 12 miles wide and were in the centre of it as darkness fell. What a visually dependent creature is man and how nervous I am when sailing in reef areas in the dark.
As soon as it got properly dark we seemed to see and hear all sorts of indications that we had strayed from the centre of the passage. We always had one person on the bow, and after 5 nerve-wracking hours the log told us that we must indeed be clear of all possible danger and well into the Arabian Sea, so we handed over control of the yacht to our Plastimo autopilot, switched on a 20 watt deck light which illuminating the white sails made us very visible, then set an alarm to awaken us every hour, and turned in together for the night. At midnight, whilst the rest of you were whooping it up and singing Auld Lang Syne at the Yacht Club, we sat with a glass of Scotch and toasted in the New Year, under the stars with the yacht sailing 5 kts in a calm sea with a following breeze of 12 kts. As we were in latitude 4 degrees N, the nights were quite warm, and the easy motion and lack of any danger made this a pleasant interlude.
It would be more interesting to our readers, I am sure, to report storms and gales and exciting events, but such was not to be the case. The yacht kept her wind from astern, the seas stayed calm to moderate and with all sail spread, she ate up the miles to Africa, averaging a daily run of 129 miles over the total distance. Dolphins joined us, frolicked for an hour, then raced off, only to be replaced by others who performed the same tricks for our diversion and applause. Dolphins seem to like you to whistle your appreciation so I often stood in the pulpit leaned over and whistled which they seemed to appreciate. They roll on their side and seem to look right at you. In this idyllic atmosphere, days came and went, shots of Jupiter, Venus and Sirius, and three sun-shots every day taken in ideal conditions established our adherence to the rhumbline way points, and we had long sleeps whilst the autopilot steered us unerringly for Djibouti.
Thus we crossed the Arabian Sea in excellent condition, but as we came within 200 miles of our landfall off the African Continent at Cape Guardafui, we started to see ships, and so we stood watches of 2 on 2 off by night and 4 on 4 off by day. We were heading for the entrance to the Red Sea at the Gulf of Aden. One time, whilst talking to a passing ship, the radio operator (a Yorkshireman intrigued by the yacht’s name) offered to put through a satellite linked radio phone call, so we were able to assure Cheryl’s mother in Townsville that we were quite well and had succumbed neither to cyclones nor to the reputed pirates of the Socotra Islands (to which we gave a wide birth)
After all the good weather we had had, it was not surprising that for our landfall off Africa a bit of wind got up, about 25 kts, and in spite of the wind a light rain and mist persisted, so that although we closed the coast in the dark we did not see the 25 mile range lighthouse. As there are no outlying dangers on this part of the African coast we continued to sail, albeit more slowly, and it was with a sense of relief that the mist lifted about two hours after dawn and we sighted the massive sandstone cliffs of Somaliland and identified the lighthouse about 7 miles away. Even though one always makes ones landfalls, it still gives me quite a charge to see them come up dead ahead, so I felt that we could splice the mainbrace early that day (it only being about 8.30 am) with a drop of Nelson’s Blood—not having any Lamb’s Navy Rum, we made do with a large Bundy and Coke, but alas no ice!
So we sailed along the Somali coast, up the Gulf of Aden which was so full of ships that it kept us on permanent watch. We ate the last of our fresh pumpkin and potatoes and onions as we neared our destination, the ex-French colony of Djibouti, which is about 100 miles from the entrance to the Red Sea, the notorious straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. We had a scare off Khor Angar Somalia, which may have been entirely my imagination, but I was slightly hyped up after hearing pirate stories about this area. What happened was that we were sailing about 5 miles off-shore when we noticed two out board powered craft leave the shore and head in our direction. They may merely have wanted to say “Hi” or sell us something, but I was taking no chances and immediately motor-sailed as fast as possible towards rougher water farther offshore. They kept coming towards us but the sea was getting rougher (I don’t usually head for rougher water but this time I couldn’t wait) with a 6 foot swell and the two craft turned around and went back to shore. Was it all my imagination? I’ll never know. Anyway, I stayed farther offshore than I would have done without the scare and we continued to Djibouti.
As we approached Djibouti, we talked on VHF channel 72 to an American yacht “Sauvage”, which was just leaving the port and heading over to Aden. He was a mine of information, not only on Djibouti, but on the passage through the Red Sea and on into the Mediterranean as he was sailing south, whilst we were headed north. He warned us about the corruption which we would experience in Egypt, and gave us the name of a relatively reliable agent in the city of Suez, who we eventually used with good results. Pre-armed with lots of information, we dropped anchor in five metres in the small boat harbour amongst twelve other long-distance yachts. Within minutes, other yachties were alongside, anxious to trade novels, of which we had a plentiful store, and to have a drink and a yarn. Then we went ashore to the Club Nautique, where we were only allowed to sign for food and grog, which was fortunate as we only had US dollar bills and travellers cheques. We had a slap-up meal and bottles of good French wine, used the washing machine, had our first fresh-water shower for 18 days, and tottered back aboard for a long sleep—the kind that you can really enjoy knowing that you are safely anchored in a quiet harbour.
The following morning, a French couple from a yacht out of Papeete, came aboard, and knowing that it was a Bank Holiday in town, and that only local currency was acceptable, thrust into our hands $130-worth of Djibouti francs. If that isn’t carrying yachtie mateship to the limit, I’d like to know what is! They and many people who I met on the way, have a high regard for Australia and Australian yachties. One yacht in the harbour, “Boreas”, was in Townsville last year and fondly remembers the good treatment at the Yacht Club, so you can see that friendly treatment and good behaviour by Oz yachties brings its own reward—let us keep up our reputation.
I cleared us through immigration formalities the next day with a smiling office staff, no bribes and a minimum of fuss (what a difference from the Maldives) and we went up town. Cheryl and I both speak French of a reasonable standard (particularly Cheryl), so we found ourselves quite at home. Djibouti seems a good place for visiting yachtsmen, although it is apparently more expensive than is Aden, as the economy is linked to French Navy pay which is quite high. Port dues of $36 for 6 days are not bad, and the cost of food, phone calls and booze was reasonable, so we did not feel we had made a mistake in not making Aden our first Red Sea stop.
Of course, when you look at the situation of the native peoples, any problems which we encountered were minuscule in comparison. Djibouti is adjacent to Ethiopia which is experiencing both famine and civil war, and many refugees try to get in from Ethiopia and crowd into Djibouti, which in comparison is prosperous. So there are many thin and emaciated people sleeping under cardboard and begging from where they lay which we saw as we walked in to town. After a while, one hardens one’s heart as the problem is so enormous, but the sight of skinny mothers, looking about 12 years old, with a babe at the breast and outstretched palms is a sight that will live with me forever. It makes you realise, that OZ is indeed the lucky country. It was ironic to read in an Australian newspaper that our population is suffering from over-eating, and that diseases relating to overfeeding are on the increase. Well on that note, it is time to finish this article. We shall stay here for 4 more days, and try to ignore the poverty around us and rest up for our entry into the Red Sea and the trip to Port Sudan which will be our next stop. N and C Taylor, late January 1988.
WHITBY LASS sails the Red Sea
We enjoyed our stay in the ex-French colony of Djibouti, whose only disadvantage to a yachtsman is the cost of everything, but once again it was time to move on and to sail the length of the Red Sea to the Suez Canal. The Red Sea is about 1200 miles in length and knowing nothing about it in advance, I assumed that we would cover its extent in 12 days sailing: but I was soon disabused of this notion.
We left Djibouti on January 22nd in the dark so that we could make our entrance into the Red Sea through the Straits of Bab-el-Mandeb in daylight—these words translate into “the gates of hell” and they did not seem to be misnamed. However, we had a favourable southerly wind as we sighted the straits and by the time we passed through it was blowing 30 kts and heaping up a tidy sea astern, so that I was glad to be sailing downwind.
There were several southbound yachts in the area waiting for the weather to moderate before trying to get through, one of which, a large catamaran, which, they told us, had been waiting at sea for four days, but was unable to stem wind and current. All the yachts sit on Channel 72 on VHF so that you can hear all the gossip and incidents and receive very helpful information during the transit.
With a SE wind we sped N for about a day and a half, laying on the westerly edge of the recommended big ship track and seeing dozens of big ships moving north and south. Gradually the wind and sea dropped and soon we were motoring in a flat calm. I did not realise it at the time, but we were in the “convergence zone”, an area which divides the prevailing southerlies from the prevailing NN Westerlies which dominate almost the entire length of the Red Sea.
During the calm, which lasted for two days, whilst we motored NNW at 4 kts, we had many dolphins on the bow and these made a beautiful sight at night looking like so many phosphorescent torpedoes. By day the Red Sea had a greenish tinge, but I understand that it gets its name from reddish-brown algae which float in huge patches several inches thick: we did not see any, but perhaps it is a warm weather phenomenon and as we got north it became markedly colder.
This north west wind bearing 330 degrees which sprang up on the second day and was to stay with us right on the nose for 1000 miles, going up to 40 knots and down to 15, but never changing its direction. The sea which this wind puts up is disproportionately steep. It is not that the waves are high, rarely exceeding 2 or 3 metres, but they are short and steep and deserve their reputation as brick walls. We thus worked out way north, sometime using the engine on idle to keep us moving and point a little higher as the seas tried to slam us to a stop. It was a very wet ride, the decks continually covered, and leaks developing around the shroud plates from the continual movement which we kept sealing with silastic.
My wife and I found the 2 on 2 off watches exhausting and the continuous motion hard to take. Ideally, what you need in the Red Sea are accurate electronic navigation equipment, heavy weather sails and a big crew to drive the yacht to the north. We do not have a Sat. Nav. Out of all the yachts we encountered only we and one other were without this facility.
You need it, because there are many reefs and few lights and even these are often not working. Also, there is the bad visibility caused by the land on both sides of the sea being desolate and bleak and lacking any vegetation to hold it together. There are constant winds so the air is full of dust and the spectacular inland mountains of 4000 to 6000 feet which could aid coastal navigation are infrequently seen. At no time, in the Red Sea did we see the sun’s disk actually set. Instead it disappears into the haze which permanently occupies the first 6 degrees or so of elevation from the horizon.
And so on we tacked for days at a time and were getting quite exhausted by the time we were approaching Port Sudan. The last night was the worst and we were down to a triple reefed main and No. 4 jib just before dawn, so it was a great relief to sight the loom of Port Sudan, and winds suddenly eased in the peculiar Red Sea way, so that we motored the last 12 miles and dropped anchor amongst several yachts on January 28th. We slept for 36 out of the first 48 hours!
Port Sudan in the Sudan
Port Sudan is the largest port of the largest country in Africa—it is also one of the poorest and 3 years ago the government adopted an Islamic form of law called Sharia, which means in part that alcohol is forbidden and that many cruel punishments become incorporated into the laws. But since many citizens are Christian and many apathetic they have refused to accept the change and a civil war wages mainly in the South. This consumes $1 million a day, which is a sizable amount of the national budget.
Thus it is that facilities normally provided in a country do not exist here. For instance garbage and toilet facilities scarcely operate and although overseas telephone facilities were installed as part of French aid before they left the country, they have long since ceased to work. Of course with the economy in such a mess, food and labour is incredibly cheap; for instance you could buy 10 kg of delicious pink grapefruit for $2 and hire a boy to carry it a mile for 20c!
Port Sudan Street
The impressions which stay with us are of a cheerful people living in squalor, with crows and starving cats picking over the garbage heaps on every corner, camels and goats wandering untended through the town and the fish and meat open air market being a very heaven for flies. Anyway we stocked up with food, diesel and water which we carefully chlorinated and sailed away on February 2nd. We had watched our hygiene to the extent of dipping everything in potassium permanganate before eating but by this time both of us were sick: Cheryl with a severe flu and I had a stomach upset, which fortunately cleared up in a couple of days.
The weather was the usual 20 kts on the nose as we tacked our way to the North North West through the endless waves.
On February 4th at 0030 the 9oz. Headsail blew to pieces in a long gust which must have reached 50 kts for a few moments, and that plus Cheryl’s sickness decided us to coast hop and day sail for a while, so we made for Khor Shin’ab a typical “marsa”. These are deep indentation into the reef strewn shore having no identifying marks (oh! for a Sat Nav at this time) and with low banks of 10-15 feet, usually 40 metres deep and fringed with coral, making anchoring difficult. But once in them, although the wind howls in the rigging, you are quite secure. So we coast hopped between marsas, starting as soon as we could see our way through the coral and stopping by 3pm at the next one.
Khor Shin’ab
Doing this we made only about 30 miles a day against wind and sea, but we only had to fight the sea for 8 or 9 hours then rest secure all night. Sometimes when we felt fit we would go offshore and tack all night in order to cover some extra miles to the north. This slow and wearisome progress continued until we entered the port of Hurghada in Egypt about 150 miles from the Suez Canal. We enjoyed the town, but the corrupt officials made our stay unpleasant. The harbour master made me give him a bribe of £E50 (about $30) before he would give me my clearance, but bribery seems to be endemic in Egyptian officials, they all have their hands out. It makes one appreciate the Aussie customs and immigration, who whilst stern on the matter of drugs and quarantine (as they should be) are nevertheless polite and businesslike, and I am sure, unbribable, in their attitude towards incoming yachties.
Hurghada, Egypt
As an example: the customs officer in Hurghada wanted me to pay 45c a litre, 9 times the going price for diesel, which was available at any service station for 5c a litre. He would only let his “fuel agent” on the dock and would not allow me to use a jerrican and a taxi to fill my tanks. Consequently, we sailed from Hurghada, glad to be away from the crooks, but with only 50 litres of diesel in our tanks.
But for the last 100 miles, Neptune was kind, and we sailed and motored in light winds all the way to Suez City, the only hazards being the innumerable ships and many seabed oil wells, some unlit, which abound on the course to Suez. We arrived in Suez on 21 February and hired an agent (the Prince of the Red Sea no less!) to complete the formalities for us. I am hoping that he can keep the bribes down in order to make more for himself, but we shall see.
Suez is a big city having expensive shops where I bought an Australian wool suit for $50 and some excellent shoes at $10 a pair. We go to Cairo tomorrow by taxi ($25) for the day to see the Pyramids along the Nile, and will make our transit of the Suez Canal and head for Greece (Crete) on Saturday 27 February, from where I will write further on our circumnavigation.
WHITBY LASS transits the Suez Canal and goes to Crete
We used an agent called “the Prince of the Red Sea” as our buffer between the Suez Canal Company, Customs and Immigration and the general run of persons all looking for a bribe, and although it cost us $150 U.S. and numerous gifts of cartons of cigarettes and scotch (in a Muslim country??) to enter and leave Egypt and transit the Canal, the avoidance of any hassling with most of the officials made it worthwhile.
We had a great day in Cairo, going by taxi and return to Suez and retaining the driver all day. The pyramids are very impressive externally (once you have got rid of the touts who hassle every newcomer), but the insides are claustrophobic and somewhat disappointing in that the burial chambers are an undecorated cube of some five metres square, reached by crawling on hands and knees for many yards. The Sphinx is magnificent and mysterious and well worth seeing.
Later in the day we went to the museum in Cairo where almost all the treasures of the pyramids and tombs are stored. Having studied Ancient History and many times seen Tutankhamen’s mask, sarcophagus and bed in text books, it was a delight to see the original in such an excellent display.
Back in Suez, we stored up the yacht and cleared for the passage down the canal. After a farewell party on one of the many yachts, the crews of whom we had become friendly with, we set off down the Canal with the compulsory pilot, named “Jimmy”, at 4 am on 27 February. The Canal is about ninety miles in length and has to be travelled under motor only. It is completed in two stages with an enforced overnight stop at the half way point of Ismalia.
A pilot is not needed by a small yacht as the entire length of the Canal can be traversed entirely outside the marked central fairway, but under S. C. A. Rules you have to pay for a pilot (about $65 U.S.). The thing which annoys yachties is that they do no piloting, eat and drink everything in sight, AND demand a “gift” of $20 U.S. at the end of it, and packets of cigarettes for their friends.
The Canal is an impressive engineering work dug through flat, featureless country. The transit is quite boring apart from being alongside very large vessels such as a 200,000 ton tanker or a U.S. aircraft carrier.
After overnighting in Ismalia we took on another pilot, a much more disagreeable one than Jimmy, who demanded a bottle of whisky as soon as he stepped on board. I told him that I had none, and he said he would not make the trip. As soon as I started to head back to the pilot station he realised his bluff was called, and indicated we should continue. As you can imagine, the rest of the passage was an unhappy affair of great tension. Finally, he demanded alcohol and I gave him some scotch from a half empty bottle which he drank quickly then demanded more. I poured the rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit into an empty scotch bottle. He drank it eagerly mixed with orange juice, and yet managed to walk off the yacht when at last we reached the northern terminus of the Canal at Port Said. Perhaps he later went blind! I found it hard to keep my cool, but could do nothing about him.
Port Said is a duty free port and we could have done with a rest for a few days, but Egyptian officials are so exasperating that we did not stop, but sailed with a feeling of great relief into the Mediterranean Sea. I let out three hearty cheers as we cleared the fairway.
The first night out, we realised just how far north we had come, and that it was time to get out our cold weather gear. We sailed in lightish SW winds for three days and then picked up our first weather forecast in English from the Greek National Radio. Unfortunately its news was for NW gales Force 8, and these did eventuate about eight hours later. We smashed into them until we were thoroughly wet, cold and tired and then hove-to. What a difference after the pounding! The yacht seems to lie best with a triple reefed main, no jib and the tiller lashed to send her to windward. In this configuration she is pushed backwards very slowly. We left on the nav. lights and our 40 watt deck working light, and turned in for eight hours continuous sleep—pure bliss. Cheryl was a bit worried at this time but accepted my assurances that we would probably live through it. I bet her $5 that we would still be alive at dawn; we were but she refused to pay me.
The next day was more of the same, fighting to windward in Force 6 or 7 until midnight and then hove-to until dawn. But then the weather quickly became very light and we motor-sailed in flat seas, until we sighted Kathos and Carpathos at 1600 hours on March 4th, and the 6000 ft mountains of Crete shortly after. We sailed as fast as possible and just made it into the harbour of Heraklion at 6pm on Saturday 5th March. We were processed quickly (and without the demand of a bribe) by the courteous Greek officials—what a relief after our experiences in Egypt!
My brother met us in Heraklion and was going to sail on to England with us, his first yachting trip! But when we left Heraklion to another town about 60 miles away we ran into hail, sleet, snow, high winds, lightning and heavy rain; my brother was violently sick all the way and on arriving in Chania advised me that I was the sailor in the family, and he could not face the prospect of weeks of the same. It was a pity he did not stay with us as we had plenty of lighter weather later and we could have had 1hour on 2 hour off watches with him there – a big relief from 1 on and 1 off.
So Cheryl and I left Chania for Sicily alone on March 16th, sailed 50 miles to Andikithera Island where we heard of forecast Force 7 WNW (on the nose). So we put into the tiny inlet containing the attractive hamlet of Patamos, from where I have written this article and will finish at this point.
Cheryl on watch and cooking
More on our journey to Sicily
Norm and Cheryl Taylor March 19th 1988.
WHITBY LASS visits Sicily, Corsica and arrives in Marseilles, France
We enjoyed the port of Chania in Crete and had a good rest, but time passed quickly and our schedule demanded our return to the voyage. So at 0715 on March 17th we sailed for Sicily in light weather, but with a forecast force 6-7. Shortly after leaving I went half way up the mast to fix some wind telltales to the shrouds and was horrified to see some snapped strands in the forestay near the masthead. Closer inspection showed that 5 out of 12 strands were in fact broken. Fortunately I carry some spare rigging wire and fittings, so we motored into a tiny inlet, barely 200 feet wide, at the head of which was the small village of Portamos on the island of Andikithera. There I made up a forestay and removed the broken item. We turned in for a good night’s sleep only to be awakened at 4am by a very large ferry which, using bow-thrusters, was able to manoeuvre in the very confined space. To the accompaniment of many toots on the ferry’s whistle, (they were not happy with my intrusion) I hauled up the anchor and we motored out of the way until the ferry left.
The wind was blowing about force 6 and I would not have left, but it shifted so as to blow into the inlet, making it a lee shore, thus we set off for Sicily again. During the first two days the wind settled to a pleasant force 3 to 4 from a direction in which is was possible to sail close hauled, an attitude which enabled Whitby Lass to sail herself with main and jib properly set, with the tiller swinging free.
One thing that one forgets around Townsville is that there is almost always sun or stars to navigate by, but in the Mediterranean, skies by day and night are often so cloudy that nothing can be seen. After three days like that I hailed a passing container ship on VHF channel 16 and asked for their position which they cheerfully gave us—this showed that we were about ten miles out in our dead reckoning. About five hours later the wind came abaft the beam, for the first time in the Med, and strengthened and at the same time fog or haze brought visibility to about half a mile. It was with some relief that shortly afterward I picked up a good signal on Cape Passero on the S.E. tip of Sicily using my small R.D.F. unit.
You can see our ports on the map above: Pozallo, Gela, Licata and Trapani.
This cape loomed up out of the mist and shortly the weather cleared and the wind swung to its usual on the nose and we commenced tacking along the south coast of Sicily. This was such a cold wet sail that when we saw the breakwaters of Pozzallo, a small town, we motored carefully into the tiny harbour where some local fishermen directed us to a laid mooring.
After a sleep, I invited the nearest fisherman for a drink on board and a father and son (Luigi and Raymondo) came over. Pozzallo is not a port of entry so we dared not go ashore, so we asked Luigi with much gesticulating and sign language if they would buy for us some fresh bread. They agreed to bring it at 5 am the next day. We were sound asleep when they motored alongside, thrust the bread and two litres of Chianti, the local dry red wine, into our hands, refused any payment in US dollars or cigarettes, and sped off into the dark. We were quite overwhelmed with their kindness.
For the rest of the trip along the south and west coast of Sicily we always had force 4 or 5 on the nose, making for very tiring, cold, wet sailing.
So we overnighted at Gela and Licata and took quite a while to get to our “port of entry” in Sicily, Trapani, where we flew our yellow “pratique” flag and took a laid mooring indicated by the skipper of a passing tugboat. There we called the “Capitainero di Porti” as our guide book suggested on Channel 16, but in spite of repeated calls no one came near us or answered. Eventually, getting desperate I rowed ashore and went to the Capitanerie, but could persuade no one to stamp us in and issue a small yacht clearance, they just waved me away.
A French yacht with whom we conversed later told us that they have a very laid back attitude to arriving small yachts and prefer to ignore them in view of the large quantity of paperwork this involved—such appears to be the logical explanation of their complete lack of interest.
Anyway we felt that we had done our best to clear, so we went ashore to cash some travellers’ cheques and buy supplies. The banks were quite surprising places, being guarded by pairs of automatic armoured security doors which admitted one person and contained a metal detector loop which I set off with my camera and thus the second door would not open. So I had to back out. My sign language from outside the bank eventually gained us admission. It took a while to work out what was wrong as neither of us can understand a word of Italian. But eventually we got some Italian lire and bought food, wine and diesel successfully.
Italy seems to have become quite prosperous, to judge by what we saw in Sicily, which used to be one of the depressed parts thirty years ago. There were many fine shops, but everything seemed quite expensive, like rump steak at $17.00 a kilo and a pair of medium priced ladies shoes at $100.00.We set sail on Good Friday after watching an Easter Procession. We sailed along the coast of Sardinia intending to bypass it if the weather held good, which it did, until the Straits of Bonifacio between Sardinia and the French Island of Corsica, where Napoleon was born.
So we tacked in moderate winds into the beautiful harbour of Porto Vecchio and fetched up in the local Port de Plaisance (a sort of government run marina common in France- Corsica is a French possession). Local yachties took our lines and whisked us off for dinner on a British yacht.
Corsica is geographically beautiful and the old town (and the fact that we can speak French) made our stay enjoyable; in fact so much so that we resolved to revisit the place for a luxury holiday some day.
We had a little trouble cashing travellers’ cheques at the banks and in fact we tried four different places before anyone would cash them—they were American Express cheques from the Westpac so should have been O.K. We were told later that the reason was probably the weak US dollar that period with no bank wishing to be holding the cheques if the dollar plunged.
You will have noticed in the first article that our original route to England was to be via Gibraltar, across the Bay of Biscay and to our first English port, Falmouth. However, we met some yachtsmen in Porto Vecchio who told me that I would be crazy to cross the Bay of Biscay in March/April and should take the yacht through the canals of France emerging at Le Havre for a short sail to England. I had not known of this possibility when planning the trip. This seemed a good idea and when they said they had already made the trip in a yacht with the same draught as ours I was convinced to try. I had no charts, but managed to buy some (albeit in French) from the local navigation shop.
Soon our idyll in Corsica ended and we set off for Marseilles, France about 200 miles away. This proved to be another very cold and wet sail with the landfall being made in fog or smog. Again I was able to make use of R.D.F. beacons. We stayed for two days at the Ile de Pomegues, about two miles off Marseilles, in the government marina.
When we visited Marseilles city by tourist ferry, we sailed around the real Chateau d’If, which we both remembered from the Dumas story, The Count of Monte Christo.
Leaving Marseilles we sailed the forty miles to Port St. Louis du Rhône where we were to enter the Rhône River and French Canal system going via Arles, Avignon, Lyons, Paris and eventually down the Seine to Le Havre which is only eighty miles from our destination, England. But we have 550 miles to travel through the Canal system, the details of which I shall apprise you in the next article—I bet you can hardly wait!
NORMAN & CHERYL TAYLOR
Whitby Lass
WHITBY LASS crosses France through the river and canal system
We took on fuel and food, had our mast removed, and festooned the sides of the yacht with tyres in Port St. Louis du Rhône and made ready to cross France by way of the canal system.
The French inland waterways are a very extensive navigable system of rivers and canals linking the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, and English Channel and also giving access to Belgium, Holland and Germany. They are principally for barge traffic with the smallest of these craft measuring 25 metres in length and 4.5 metres in beam. Some of the canals have a minimum depth of 1.2 metres, so we had to plan our route around these as we draw 1.8 metres.
We left Port St. Louis in rain and strong winds and motored off upstream in the River Rhône bound for Lyons, a distance of some 310 km and having thirteen locks, one of which we were told, is the biggest freshwater lock in the world. The current against us in the river was of the order of four knots in many places, so with our 18 hp Volvo labouring away, we could just about make two knots over the ground. We arrived in the ancient city of Arles at about 7 pm and tied up alongside an English yacht heading downstream for the Mediterranean. Here we learned our first bit of disappointing news—the lock above us was closed for one week for repair. So we settled down in Arles to see the sights and do a little yacht maintenance. Arles has many beautiful and ancient buildings and for 30 Fr (about $6) we bought a ticket which admitted us to the lot, which we saw during our enforced stay.
We left Arles on Saturday 23rd April and motored in rain into our first lock, quite overawed by the sheer height of the walls and swept around by the wash of the barge we were inside the lock with. Our entry into this first lock was a shambles in which we hit the bow against the sides and struggled with the swirling rapidly rising water. But we learned quickly, and as to date we have been through some 289 locks with virtually no hassles we feel our initiation was a valuable learning experience.
In a small lock, Cheryl works the sluices and lock gates, I handle the yacht; and at the cathedral of Rheims
We had intended to go via the shortest route to Paris and travel via the Canal du Centre but it was closed for maintenance until May 16th so we changed direction and went up the River Saône and along a canal with 110 locks and a five km tunnel (very scary, no lights and water dripping on us) to the River Marne, where many soldiers died during the First World War. Even today, the graveyards are in good repair and visible from the canals.
On this canal, we experienced engine problems with which we were helped by a local Frenchman far beyond the degree anyone could have hoped for. This man, Jean-Claude, asked if we had a problem when he saw us stopped. He came aboard, diagnosed the problem as a blocked fuel filter and a leaking injector and replaced the seal, which tied up our French friend all day. He refused to take any money, explaining that he too was a yachtsman. I finally made him accept a bottle of Scotch.
I should record that all the time we were in France, we received many kindnesses and assistance from every quarter. The sheer politeness of everyone is in contrast to the way that many foreigners who are treated in Australia. Or, to give another example, we moored at a quay in a small country town at 5pm; I asked a person who was watching us moor, where I could buy bread, cheese, tomatoes and pâté. He replied that it was 4 km away and they would be closed before I got there if I walked, so he put me in his car, took me to the shop and brought me back.
We may not be pleased with the way the French government is testing its nuclear weapons in the Pacific, but on an individual basis, we have met with nothing but kindness. It probably helps that we speak French, and that our flag identifies us as Australian not English.
The next problem to hit us was an overheating alarm from the engine. I checked the circulating pump and the thermostat before finding that the trouble was due to grass and weed in the cooling water intake. This was not surprising (in retrospect) as the canals are full of such debris. These blockages occurred many more times but were always at the same place, so I became quite adept at clearing it.
It was with great pleasure that we entered the lower Marne River to commence our descent towards Paris, and having beautiful days, very attractive country to pass through and the current actually helping us to achieve 7 knots, we happily sped on.
We were only 60 km from Paris when a lockkeeper told us that we had to turn back! Apparently a 120 ton barge had run into a lock gate and wrecked it and the Marne was closed for two months!
It was with long faces and near despair that we turned round and went slowly back 180 km over our old tracks, but this time against the current. In order to get around the closure, we had to go up to the River Aisne and down the Oise to the Seine, an extra 120 km and 40 locks. But we persisted, and went through some beautiful country including the Champagne district where we bought a case of champagne of “Premier Cru” quality at $7 a bottle.
At last we started to race downstream again, assisted by the current, but out detour was making us late on our schedule for England, so we decided to by-pass Paris and head straight for Le Havre, where we will step the mast and re-enter saltwater again. That reminds me that the freshwater in which we have been for a month has scoured the yacht’s undersides of all the accumulated growth since we left Australia and it is interesting to note that the yacht sits 3% lower in the freshwater, a fact which puzzled me for a while when I first noticed it.
So tomorrow, it is off to the sea at Le Havre, where we shall pick up our mail and commence the final leg of this trip across the English Channel to Dover and then up the North Sea to Whitby, a small seaport on the North Yorkshire coast, and time for a rest for Whitby Lass and her crew.
NORMAN AND CHERYL TAYLOR
May 1988
The Last Leg: Le Havre, France to Whitby, UK
We entered the last lock on the River Seine with two sea going ships, each almost 150 feet in length. We attached ourselves to a ladder in the lock by a short continuous rope which I wrapped around a rung, and as we descended as the lock emptied, I changed rungs. We had done this operation in over 200 locks during our trip across France, so I suppose I was getting over confident and careless.
The lock was emptied and the gates opened. The rope by which we were attached, I had looped around my wrist. When the ship in front of us started to move, his propeller wash was so great that our yacht became uncontrollable for 30 seconds, during which my hand was pulled through the ladder rung and the loop tightened round my wrist.
For a few seconds I thought I would be returning to Townsville, like Captain Hook, minus one hand! Anyway, I escaped with the loss of a great deal of skin and severe bruising of my right hand. Fortunately, I am left-handed and after medical attention we continued without incident into Le Havre, where we had a welcome rest in the marina.
Le Havre is one of the most unattractive of the French cities which we visited, as it was largely demolished during D-Day invasion and consists of ugly post-war buildings.
We had an uneventful crossing of the 140 miles to Dover in quite calm although cold conditions, and were thrilled to see the famous White Cliffs as we approached the entrances. Dover, which I had last sailed into in 1962, has become a very busy port with a ferry or hovercraft leaving for continental Europe every few minutes. There is a system of traffic lights and yachts have to stay clear of the two entrances until cleared by VHF radio and signalled by the lights. The tidal range is about six metres and so the yacht basin is only available, through a gate and swing bridge, for one hour either side of high water. Once in the basin, there were yachts from all over Europe at moorings.
We rested for several days at Dover, during which time we explored the excellent castle there with its display of weapons and armour through the centuries. Another day we took the bus to the old city of Canterbury and spent hours in the beautifully preserved cathedral, seeing the place where Thomas à Becket was martyred and the stairs where the pilgrims, such as those mentioned in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, did penance on their knees to approach the shrine.
But soon it was time to sail again as the Mayor of Whitby advised us by radio-phone that to get maximum publicity for the town she wanted us to arrive at a certain time on Whitsunday Monday, May 30th, when the town would be packed by holiday makers.
In order to be sure that we could keep our appointment, I decided that we would be one day early at the town of Scarborough, about twelve miles south of Whitby. So we left Dover at 0550, a time dictated by the tide, and navigated in worsening visibility around the Goodwin Sands. Because of its high latitude (53N) England enjoys very long days in its summertime, it being possible to read a newspaper at 4am and at 10pm, but all this daylight is of little use when the fog rolls in—which it duly did!
It is quite nerve-wracking to move slowly under engine with shoals around you, taking directions from unseen whistle or bell buoys which mark the shoals and relying on depth sounder reading to tell you if you are being swept by the tidal currents which surge around the British Isles. At that time I wished that I had Sat Nav, Loran, or Radar. Anyway, we crept slowly on, across the very wide Thames estuary and around the bulge of East Anglia with its numerous offshore shoals using the small hand-held RDF which was invaluable in such conditions as there are many beacons on the coast. One complaint which I have is that there is one British and one French powerful broadcasting radio stations on the 200-500 Khz band which all beacons use, and any beacon near the radio station frequency could not be heard. The fog continued until we were off the River Humber when it quickly cleared and gave way to sunshine and good visibility. In these conditions we identified some of the North Sea oil rigs which dot this shallow sea, and sailed on in pleasant conditions towards Scarborough. Once again, the tidal conditions necessitated our heaving-to, to await high water and get into the very crowded harbour. This harbour dries completely so we had to rig a mast rope to shore to hold us upright as we settled into the black mud. We went into the yacht club but had been sworn to secrecy by the Whitby mayor, so as not to let Scarborough steal any of Whitby’s thunder, so we were non-committal about where we had come from and were going to.
After an uncomfortable night spent attending to lines as the yacht rose 4 metres, we were forced to leave at 6am on the high water although we had only twelve miles to travel to the end of our journey in Whitby and were scheduled to arrive at 2.30 pm. So we did not set any sail and allowed the two-knot tide to sweep us up to and past Whitby before it turned and started to bring us back.
A radio call to the Mayor assured us that everything was on schedule and we took up station about two miles offshore to await our escort. The Whitby Yacht Club, of which I had been a member in the 60’s, organised a flotilla of yachts and these sailed with the Mayor, who was on board the lifeboat, to escort us in. The weather which had been dull and grey smiled on us for two hours and it was in sunshine that we sailed at the head of the fleet into Whitby Harbour. The harbour is the estuary of the River Esk and is consequently long and narrow. Advance publicity in the press and on radio and the work by a dedicated group of Lions in a loudspeaker van ensured that thousands of holiday makers were lining the banks.
It was really like being king and queen for a day as we were clapped and cheered all the way up the river. This culmination of all the effort and toil in making the trip and the realisation that we were indeed here brought tears to our eyes (a most landlubberly performance!). It was indeed memorable to see the area where I launched my first dinghy (and capsized in Robin Hood’s Bay) and first sailed in this chilly North Sea.
We docked in the marina and were swamped with officials and media representatives and were required to present the gifts which we were carrying from the people of Cooktown to the people of Whitby over and over so that everyone could get pictures. By the end of this, and having got through several bottles of champagne, we were in such a euphoric state that the smoked salmon dinner to which we were whisked off seems like a dream sequence. We slept exhausted on board the yacht that night, and then went with friends to their luxurious home on the edge of the Yorkshire moors. Here we have enjoyed the soft and routine life of comfortable dry beds, hot showers and watching TV and videos. We intended to wait in England until the hurricane season was over to sail towards the Caribbean so we enjoyed the dolce vita of lazy days and nights of relative luxury ashore.
BUT THEN SOMETHING HAPPENED!! About a month after we arrived in Whitby, Cheryl was sick whilst we were at the cinema and unbelievably, we found, after a visit to the doctor, that she was pregnant. We had tried every way, including IVF years before, to have a baby and gave up trying to have one two years before setting off on this trip. When the dust had settled, we decided that Cheryl would return post-haste to Australia and we would give up our return via yacht and sell it in England. Cheryl’s mother was delighted to be a Grandma when it had seemed such an unlikely event as Cheryl was by now 43. Cheryl went home alone in July and I sold the yacht in August for about what it had cost in Australia.
So now the journey is over, and it is a time for recapitulation. To remember such things as the morning glare burning off the pale gray summer mist to leave the islets of the Cocos surrounded by azure waters; and less happily the innocent looking clouds marching along the black line of the sea which soon change into a long wall of cumulus extending vertically for thousands of feet, then charged with lightning, flickering brilliantly, then quiescent until commanded by an angry Neptune, the flashing increases and wind and sea rise to horrendous proportions which having reduced our morale to tatters, quickly subsides. But we have gained from our journey, knowledge about ourselves and memories and friends to last us a lifetime. The airlines have not really shrunk the earth. Going even halfway around it still feels like a long journey and at each boundary of sea or ocean each country remains odd enough to satisfy anybody’s thirst for strangeness. Yes, a long voyage is indeed good for the soul or spirit and one can agree with Goethe when he said:
For what is served by all the expenditure of suns and planets and moons, of stars and Milky Ways, of comets and nebula, of worlds evolving and passing away, if at last, a happy man* does not involuntarily rejoice in his existence?
*(The above of course applies equally to my wife who has shared all joys and dangers on this voyage.) This is therefore my last article for the magazine. We look forward to sharing a drink with our friends at the Club on returning to Australia.
NORMAN TAYLOR. August 1988