Flying & Sailing British Columbia: The Remote North

I caught the sailing bug as a little kid, only about six years old, on a small island in British Columbia. It wasn’t long before I was daydreaming of sailing farther afield than my tiny dinghy could take me. I’m not sure why my childhood mind got fixated on the North Coast, right up by the Alaska border, and in particularly the Haida Gwaii islands, a misty archipelago sticking out into the North Pacific. But somehow it did. Maybe it was the chart of the British Columbia coast on the wall in my parents’ house. Or maybe it was the Native Haida artist who was one of my parents’ closest friends. One of his woodblock prints hung over the fireplace in our house: a stylized raven that held your gaze with the tension in its form and lines. And whenever we visited his house, I was caught – even as a six-year-old – by the palpable spirit of his art, all around us. There were cedar bentwood boxes, masks on the walls, drawings, carvings: all of it imbued with the history, feeling, and spirit of his culture. I remember his house having a sort of hush inside, that the art inhabiting the place required respect and even reverence from anyone who crossed the threshold.

However it was, I was captivated by the islands of the North Coast. In my imagination they were cold, and swept with wind and rain, heavily forested and moss-covered, and imbued with that same hushed reverence with which I instinctively approached the art of my parents’ friend. I saw the islands themselves as a truly wild wilderness, where bears and wolverines reigned in the steep hills and where beautifully carved Haida totem poles and the people who created them reigned along the shore. Of course the true history of the Haida First Nations people is also one of tragedy, of the near loss of their oral history, dances, societal structure, art and customs, from colonization, disease, religious conversion, forced separation of children from their families, and all the terrible things that have sadly followed the Western explorers all over the world. In some ways, however, these tragedies make the islands and their people even more impressive: the fact that they have held onto their culture, revived it and passed it onto their children and grandchildren, is evidence of truly awe-inspiring resilience and fortitude.

However shallow or deep my understanding of this region was as a child, the place captivated me and I wanted nothing more than to sail there aboard a small boat, anchor in a lonely bay, and take in the majesty of the place. I first got the opportunity to do so about ten years ago when I sailed north to Alaska from Washington State. However, I had a faraway goal on that trip – to reach the Aleutian Islands – and I was moving fast and covering a lot of distance. So when a friend invited me on a slow mosey of the North Coast this year, of course I said yes.

I met up with the steel pilothouse cutter in Daajing Giids (formerly Queen Charlotte Village) in Haida Gwaii, at the end of March, hardly an ideal time to cruise such a northern archipelago. Then again, maybe it was ideal? Maybe the cold, wintry conditions would add to the mystical hold this region already had on me. Instead of warm sunshine glowing on ripening blackberry bushes, I could expect leaden skies, whitecapped seas, leafless alder groves, snow on the mountaintops, and wind-driven sleet. While this is fairly well the opposite of what all of us actually prefer – especially for a sailing voyage – there was no denying that the moody, harsh weather would add to that sense of a hushed, little-known land on which a hardy group of humans had withstood the fury of North Pacific storms year after year, generation after generation.

No longer a dreamy child, but now an adult with much better understanding, I wondered as I prepared for the trip how my own art – as a photographer and writer – could ever come close to distilling the essence of a place like the Haida Gwaii archipelago and the surrounding coast. The First Nations art does it perfectly, to my mind: the lines, colors, and the spirit and history infusing that art, conveys the place and its people in way nothing else can. My art is, of course, completely different. It’s an outsider’s perspective; I focus primarily on nature photography; and it’s realist art rather than a figurative or abstract rendition of story, spirit, and culture. So I packed my cameras with a plan to focus on my own experience, conveying what I saw through my own lens, literal and figurative.

Sailing British Columbia: Setting Off from Daajing Giids

I arrived on a relatively calm day, with drifting clouds and a little bit of pale sunshine; the sail from the bay next to the airport across to the town of Daajing Giids was a pleasant, if cold, waft downwind. Nothing storm-tossed; in fact, it was just the sort of hushed, calm but wild, beauty I had had in mind for so long. The village itself was still hunkered down for the winter, with only a hint of buds on the salmonberry bushes and a few bursts of forsythia and daffodils to relieve the gray-green palate of land, sea, and sky. When the sun came out, it still had that cold – even harsh – light that the winter sun does, casting sharp shadows from the treeless branches. I knew that capturing the fickle winter beauty with my camera would be a challenge.

I began with a steep hike up a mountain behind Daajing Giids, called Sleeping Beauty, as the ridgeline looks a bit like a face in profile, lying on its back looking up at the sky. The trail up was a tangle of roots, brush, moss, and mud, giving way to snow as I climbed. The last pitch was a steep face, mostly covered in snow, and then I was atop a knife-edge ridge coated in slippery, granular spring snow. The mountains beyond were all thick with snow, the trees still bowed under its weight. Drifting clouds came and went, one moment obscuring everything except the snow at my feet, and then clearing in bits and pieces to reveal lakes, forests, and a far-off inlet of the sea. When the sun shone down onto the cloud at just the right angle, it painted a rainbow on the mist in a wide stroke. Looking out over the misty forests, I felt that yes, I had arrived in the quiet wilderness I had envisioned as a child.

The true wilderness of Haida Gwaii, however, is on the wind- and wave-swept west coast, exposed to the swell and wind of the entire North Pacific. A narrow passage, tearing with fast tidal current, cuts between the north and south islands of the archipelago and leads to the rocky lee shore of the west coast. Heading west, the currents are more favorable, meeting in the middle so that the flood takes you up and the ebb lets you down the other side.

We left Daajing Giids under just the sort of leaden skies and down-jacket weather I’d been expecting; there was little wind and so we motored through the passage on the correct tides. Coming out into the open sea, we hoisted sail in washing machine seas. The ocean swell was hitting the rocks and cliffs and bouncing back to create much steeper waves than the wind warranted. I felt a bit nauseated after several months away from sailing, but fortunately the bouncy conditions were soon alleviated as we turned into a spectacular inlet on Moresby Island. Seemingly sheer cliffs dropped into the sea, forming an entrance narrow enough to prevent the swell from entering. A shallow bar runs across the inlet partway in, and we found we had to wait for the tide to rise a little more before we would be able to cross it and gain the full protection of this magnificent, deserted bay.

Looking around, I noticed a shelving shingle beach on the north side of the inlet. A small area of level ground lay behind the grey shore, the only flat bit of land beyond the high tide line. It was the site of an ancient Haida village, long since gone. There may have been a few shell middens hidden deep under the thick moss, but otherwise there was no visible evidence that anyone had ever lived there. Yet, as is so often the case with places like this – my home state of Hawai’i is filled with them – you simply knew that people had indeed lived there; it had a settled tranquility to it – and also a sort of empty silence – that the wilderness surrounding it did not.

Going ashore, I tried to capture that sense of silent stillness – almost sadness – in a photograph. Strangely, however, I couldn’t capture it at the village site, but I could in different ways. There were all the different variations of moss – from pale green feathers draped over tree branches to the velvety green carpet underfoot  – that conveyed that sense of hush I felt everywhere. There were the immense driftwood logs washed onto the tidal mudflats at the head of the inlet, whose fantastic shapes, coupled with the sheer faces of the cliffs, conveyed the wild grandeur of the setting. And the tiny shape of the cutter, anchored before the endless forests carpeting the hills, gave a sense of the fragile toehold humans have on this harsh and yet rich and abundant coast.

After a few days sheltered against the southeasterly gale blowing outside, it was time to return through the Narrows between Graham and Moresby Islands and head across Hecate Strait for the Prince Rupert area. We took our time in the Narrows, waiting for the right tides and poking about on shore with the oystercatchers and deer. The skies had cleared, though it was still cold, and the water in the narrows was glassy calm, reflecting the forested hills, snowy summits, and the lavender colors of the sunset. Together with the cloud wisps floating below the mountaintops, the sunset light on sea and sky made for one of the best opportunities to photograph the exquisite stillness of the Haida Gwaii wilderness.

We crossed Hecate Strait at night in a short-lived southeasterly blow, so that we could sail with a following wind. It was blustery, cold, and choppy, but it was preferable to motoring into a headwind. We reached an anchorage near Prince Rupert at the height of the spring tides. Watching the water flow out and leave behind the immense structures of the piers gave me yet another perspective on the ruggedness of the environment, but one that also highlighted the rich marine life in these current-filled, cold seas, from oysters to salmon to the kingfishers and eagles.

I witnessed the spectacular life of the North Coast a few days later when we departed Prince Rupert for Alaska. Motoring out of a twisting channel to the north of the town, we came upon an enormous raft of thousands of black specks, covering a large stretch of water beyond one of the navigation markers. For a brief moment, we wondered what it could be – until it took flight. The raft was a huge flock of scoter ducks, black with striking red and orange bills and red feet. They would hurry along the surface of the water to take to the sky, each one comical in its takeoff run, but together appearing like a giant cloud. From behind my camera lens, the flock rising into the air echoed the mountains behind, and the monochrome blue-gray-silver of the sky, sea, birds, and the distant land perfectly captured the raw winter day, just starting to show hints of spring.

So far, I had focused my photography on the wintry wildness of the landscape, but when we came to Ketchikan, Alaska, I changed that. Ketchikan is today the fifth largest town in Alaska, whose main industry is tourism. It’s been the port of entry for vessels entering Alaska from the south since the town’s incorporation in 1900. It has been variously a fishing and cannery town, a mining town, and a lumber town. The Tlingit people were the original inhabitants of the area, fishing the creek that now runs through town for generations. The town that has grown up since Westerners first arrived in the mid-19th century, however, is what dominates today. So rather than shooting landscapes and wildlife, capturing views of the town – especially in its pre-tourism winter garb – became my focus for my photographs. I wanted to show the working side of Ketchikan, rather than the tourist-centric waterfront promenade; I wanted to show the old trucks, potholed streets, and the salmon trollers tied up in the city boat basin. It seemed to round out my landscape shots from Haida Gwaii, showing both sides of this North Coast region.

Talking to the Sky

But, of course, Alaska’s magnificent scenery has a way of intervening. When I was offered the opportunity to fly a DeHavilland Beaver seaplane, of course I jumped at it.

The seaplanes in Ketchikan run full-out all summer, taking cruise ship passengers on scenic tours of the magnificent Misty Fjords, a wilderness of lakes, cliffs, fjords, waterfalls, forests, and mountain peaks. Floatplanes are by far the best access for this area, as they can set down on inaccessible mountain lakes and at the heads of fjords alike. This time of year, however, pilot Michelle was engaged in wildlife survey flights, tracking the herring spawning events: where they were occurring and when. They were very early this year, on account of sea temperatures 3 degrees (Fahrenheit) warmer than normal. For me, hitching along on a survey flight was quite a bit more interesting than taking a tour; the scientific work interested me and, of course, the flying really did. Except for the takeoffs and landings (I’m only rated in land planes), I was privileged to fly this beautifully restored DeHavilland, with its roaring radial engine, on the legs to and from Ketchikan to pick up the biologists who would be conducting the survey. On the actual survey, I retired to the back while the lead biologist took the copilot’s seat. And that gave me the freedom to photograph the stunning beauty that is Southeast Alaska from arguably an even better vantage than from the deck of a boat. I wondered, after taxiing back to the dock in Ketchikan, whether the next time I returned to Alaska it would be to sail or to fly.

Retiring to the boat that evening, however, and stoking the little woodstove against the nipping frost in the air, listening to the water lap along the hull, I remembered that yes, boats are pure magic. Especially in places like this.

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The post Sailing British Columbia: Remote North with Ellen Massey Leonard appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

The DARWIN200 Oosterschelde Mission

Almost two centuries ago, HMS Beagle sailed around the world, with Charles Darwin on board. The Beagle, a Royal Navy Cherokee-class 10-gun brig-sloop, turned surveying vessel, took him to South America and around the world, earning a key role in the development of Darwin’s Theory of Evolution through Natural Selection. With the scientific revolution that followed, Darwin’s route and the sites of his discoveries became celebrated and well documented. Two centuries later, in celebration and continuation of his journey and work, the historic Dutch tall ship Oosterschelde is retracing Darwin’s steps, on an ‘epic global environmental voyage’ named DARWIN200. 

In HMS Beagle’s time, when sailing around the world was far from the sport of today, the expedition took around five years to complete. In the wake of the 2023/4 Ocean Globe Race and, even more so, looking forwards to this year’s Vendee Globe with its IMOCA 60 class yachts, the vessels sailing around the world today have understandably progressed. And yet, here we have a three-masted schooner, built in the 1918 in the Netherlands, taking on the challenge. The mission of her expedition however, is not aimed at trophy or title, but is one of planetary conservation and legacy. 

About the Dutch Tall Ship Oosterschelde 

Starting out as a cargo ship in 1918, the Dutch tall ship Oosterschelde is believed to have lived five lives. From transporting Dutch material and goods, to Danish ownership (renamed Fuglen II), then Swedish (renamed Sylvan) and then rebuilt as a modern motorised coaster, she finally returned to the Netherlands in 1988. There, a foundation was created to fund her two-year restoration in its entirety, led by Dick van Andel, with the help of her last Dutch Captain, Jan Kramer, and three maritime museums.

This three-masted historic Dutch tall ship, fully restored to the highest standard, is the largest sailing boat ever to undergo restoration in the Netherlands, and has since made two successful voyages around the world (1996-68; 2012-14). Nationally, Oosterschelde is recognised as a monument by the Dutch Government, one with an enormous amount of Dutch cultural and historic value. Internationally, she is one of the oldest and most authentic ships in the fleet of tall ships across the globe. 

Since her refurbishment, she’s hosted an eclectic mix of politicians, royalty, pop stars and presidents. But you’d be mistaken in defining her by the glamour of others; her journey reaches far beyond the lives of the rich, famous and powerful. As the first commercial Dutch tall ship to successfully sail around the infamously hazardous Cape Horn, and also to reach both north and south poles, Oosterschelde, and those who sail her, channel a pioneering mentality. I spoke with her captain, Gerben Nab, on the trailblazing nature of their mission. His response was emphatic: “If someone tells me ‘oh you can’t go there’, then I say ‘Oh why not?!’… If they say it’s not allowed then we have to change the rules!’’.

Gerben went on to say,

“It was very difficult to sail the ship around the world because we don’t have a big trust or organisation that pays us money. No, we have to earn our own living, we have people who sail with us. So it is not like a logical step to do something that nobody else did before. It’s not that we are really anarchists, but a little bit. The ship got that name a little bit, and if you have that name then the people that ask to come and work for you (…) you know they want to be part of that. And so you get a kind of culture in your company of a ship that goes where not everybody goes (…) it had never been done before and there were no captains with a sailing licence anymore because sailing ships were supposed to be extinct, apart from Yachts, but we were a merchant ship under sail again. So we had a kind of, how do you say it, pioneer’s role, but also a pioneer’s mentality – we did many things for the first time… We sort of opened doors for other ships to follow us…”  

This pioneering mentality seems to be at the heart of Oosterschelde, and all who have been, and are, involved in her journey. Gerben said:

“We have proven that it is possible to do something outside the box and make it into a success. Connecting to the Darwin200 project, we hope to empower that project in the same way, and show ‘the world’ that with a clear vision and spirit of adventure it is possible to achieve the impossible.”

Though this Dutch tall ship has been remarkably restored, I asked Gerban about what happens if something were to break or go wrong. His spirit, and the spirit of the mission, were ever-clear. He said:

“When you are out there in the ocean, you are on your own. You can stop at the nearest port, but you have to fix something at that very moment, whether that’s a person (…) or a ripped sail (…) you have to fix it. So that’s not only about the chemistry in this team (…) it’s also about the technical skills. You need to have a team that is capable of solving problems in general…that’s a little bit about culture, if something breaks down you’re not going to sit down and write a report about it or call somebody to help you, no, you have to fix it yourself. So it’s the kind of attitude you should have (…) It is about, how do you say… endurance? Of your materials and of yourself.”

Thinking about the comforting technologies on more contemporary boats sailing the globe, I asked Gerben about modern gadgets. His reply: 

“No, because it’s an old-fashioned ship, you work with old fashioned stuff as well… What I mean is you must have enough ropes to do the sail and enough needles to do the stitching. What keeps you going is of course your rigging and the basic things of the ship (…) simple things, and that’s the good thing, most of the time you can buy simple things everywhere in the world (…) The more specialised it gets, like you have on modern ships nowadays, you need a specific part for some specific computer, you won’t be able to find it on a small island, it’s not there, it’s not available.”

About DARWIN200 

With the help of Oosterschelde, the planetary conservation project DARWIN200 was set up to continue the work Darwin achieved on board HMS Beagle.

The restored Dutch tall ship, Oosterschelde, built in 1918, now in her ‘fifth’ life, has become a floating, sailing, research lab, supporting a wide range of critical environmental projects, with the aim to combat some of our most problematic ecological crises. By featuring the findings from these projects in real-time data feeds, while offering interactive online lectures, presentations and interviews, the DARWIN200 project has captivated an audience across the world, of all ages. And so, through creating this window into the projects aboard the ship, DARWIN200 has invited a global community to explore and discuss some of the nature’s most important environmental challenges together in a global classroom, or as they’ve named it, ‘World’s Most Exciting Classroom’. This Dutch tall ship is currently hosting eight projects, four of which are being undertaken at sea, between ports, while the other four are conducted while visiting each port. 

Alongside these projects onboard, the DARWIN200 mission includes organising a small group of ‘Darwin Leaders’ (selected for outstanding contributions and achievements in conservation – from all around the world) in each port, to join the mission for an intensive week-long conservation leadership training programme. The expedition aims to work with 200 young Darwin Leaders, to empower and inspire them with new skills and ideas to enhance the conservation work they’re already doing in their communities. 

Stuart McPherson, Founder and Director of the DARWIN200 says:

“Charles Darwin was only 22 when he set sail on his life-changing voyage in 1831, famously saying that it was by far the most important event in his life, determining his whole career. We wanted to create a similarly transformative experience for members of the public and 200 of the world’s brightest young environmentalists, who have the potential to be the STEM and conservation leaders of tomorrow and the catalysts to change the future of planet Earth for the better.”

Speaking to Captain Gerben Nab, he also emphasised the bigger picture:

“We give the Darwin leaders the possibility to liaise with these people, tell them what they know, but also the possibility to learn from the others and in that chemistry, something bigger can develop – that’s what we hope.”

Where is Oosterschelde now?

Having departed in August 2023, Oosterschelde’s 40,000+ nautical mile voyage is fully underway. She successfully rounded Cape Horn and has sailed up the coast of South America, before heading west into the Pacific, due to arrive in the archipelago of the Galápagos on 25th April. With a team of international young environmentalists onboard, the DARWIN200 cohort plans to collaborate with NGOs and local experts in the Galápagos across 11 projects, ranging from the conservation of giant tortoises, and monitoring sea lion populations amid  potential climate change impacts, to uncovering the world of rays, understanding the global importance of mangroves for climate research, and discovering the remarkable microbiome of Galápagos tomatoes on barren lava fields. Also, on arrival, the selected young Darwin Leaders of the Galápagos will be invited aboard to begin their conservation leadership training programme.

Alongside this flurry of activity, the Oosterschelde’s visit to the Galápagos, the site of Darwin’s development of his Theory of Evolution through Natural Selection, is a hugely important moment for this global conservation voyage – it serves as a symbol of all of Darwin’s work, and an important reminder of Oosterschelde’s mission. 

Next stop on Oosterschelde’s pioneering environmental voyage is Easter Island, 1,900 nautical miles west of Chile. With the energy from the Galápagos in their sails, the DARWIN200 project will continue to inspire and empower the global community and the next generation of environmentalists. I asked Captain Gerban Nab what he was most looking forward to. He talked about the projects, conservational work ahead, and the young Darwin Leaders programme, but also, with huge passion, and the voice of an adventurer, about the feeling of being far out at sea, going around the world. He spoke about watching the layers of thunderstorms develop before your eyes and the enormity of space. He told me:

“You are in a storm and you see these big waves (…) and then you see this big Albatross is next to you, it is just gliding, it doesn’t even move a single feather you know… they are just looking at you ‘oh man look at them struggling!’ It’s more about the moments that sort of touch you, and you never know when they will come, but they will. Every voyage you have something remarkable, some special feeling. That’s what I’m looking forward to.”

Get Involved in Oosterschelde’s DARWIN200 Mission:

To learn more about the DARWIN200 project, and to hear all their latest discoveries and findings visit the DARWIN200 website.

Want to join the voyage and sail on the Oosterschelde? There are still some places left… Visit the Oosterschelde website for more info. 

Read More:

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• Reviews of classic and modern sailing books

The post Restored Dutch Tall Ship’s World Voyage: DARWIN200 Mission appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

The majestic West Country trading ketch, Bessie Ellen, is set on a sailing tour around Britain this year, to mark 120 years of heritage sailing.

About the the ‘Round Britain tour’

This extraordinary milestone tour, split into two legs, will see Bessie Ellen calling in at fourteen UK ports. Circumnavigating around England, Wales and Scotland, this wonderfully restored trading ketch will journey through the breathtaking shores of the Hebrides, ragged coastline of the Orkneys and England’s East Coast, before making its way to Brest, across the Channel, for the Brest Maritime Festival.

Guests are invited for a single leg, or to combine a few, where they will meet the skipper and owner, Nikki Alford, while soaking in the heritage of this classic vessel as it journeys around the British coast.

The history of this Westcountry trading ketch

Built in 1904, this wonderful trading ketch has a remarkable heritage, from transporting goods around Britain, to being purchased by a Danish captain in 1947, for a stint in the Baltic. Having Voyaged through the changing tides of history, this listed National Historic Ship has since been restored (almost 100 years since her creation), allowing her to serve as a vital part of our maritime heritage.

It seems, Bessie Ellen, as she is today, has an incredible purpose of connecting us to the skills, stories and traditions of the trading and exploring mariners of the past, which in turn may promote a healthy and developing system of maritime trade for the future.

From the owner and Skipper

‘We are excited for the Round Britain tour, celebrating this beautiful ship and enabling numerous communities around the United Kingdom to access Bessie Ellen and see first-hand why she is so special. Bessie Ellen hails from the days of Britannia ruling the waves, when goods were transported over the oceans and navigation was by stars and charts. In keeping Bessie Ellen alive, we are maintaining our connection to this significant part of our sailing history, ensuring its survival for generations to come.’ – Nikki Alford

Take a look at Bessie Ellen’s Voyage schedule to join the extraordinary commemoration of this West Country trading ketch, while touring around Britain and through British maritime history.

The post Round Britain Tour: West Country trading ketch appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

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Words and photos: Will Stirling

Integrity is a timber-built sailing boat based upon yacht designs of the late 1880s. She was designed and built by Stirling and Son Ltd in Plymouth, UK.

Her vital statistics are 43ft (13.1m) LOD, with a weight of 23 tonnes. Her length over the spars is 60ft (18m) as she has a long bowsprit extending forward and a boom that projects over the stern. She has a topmast that can be sent aloft in fine weather or housed against the main mast in windy weather. She also carries a square sail for downwind work. She is traditionally built and rigged with a minimum of electronics and systems. The underlying essence of the boat is one of functional aesthetics.

After a number of years of what could be termed extended sea trials and fine-tuning close to her base in Plymouth, she has gone north. The fine tuning included installation of a coal- and peat-burning stove, copper sheathing of the entire hull under the water and understanding what tools and spares would be needed for voyages that are beyond support.

There are three principal attractions of sailing in the north: the scenery is beautiful; all decisions are significantly consequential; and there is no one else there.

Integrity’s current base is North Iceland from where, every year, she undertakes short incursions into the Arctic. Always sailing with a crew of five, the first part of each voyage is necessarily a passage in order to reach the selected remote shore. A crew of five allows for a steady watch system of two hours on and six hours off while at sea. A crew of five also allows three people to enjoy a shore party while two stay on board in order to move the boat if the wind changes or if ice becomes a problem. Furthermore, five on board seems to be a flexible arrangement in terms of being able to cope with problems.

A principal pleasure of these voyages is the practice of good seamanship. This has two elements: efficient boat handling in the present moment and geographical strategy during the longer term. There is always the threat of the snowball effect, where one minor misjudgement or thoughtless decision leads on through a catalogue of subsequent events to a major incident which ultimately may of course be fatal.

The perceived success of each voyage is not based upon physical achievements but a harmonious crew who have all enjoyed themselves. The crews are selected carefully and always include a core who know the boat. The basis of selection is not necessarily skill but rather a willingness to do whatever needs to be done and the ability to maintain a positive outlook even when cold, tired or frightened.

First Voyage to Jan Mayen

Our first voyage in 2019 was to Jan Mayen with the aim of climbing the volcano Beerenberg. We sailed in mid-May. This was relatively early in the year in terms of climate and weather but had the benefit of crisp snow conditions with firm snow bridges over the crevasses on the mountain.

Having found Jan Mayen we initially anchored on the southeast side in a small bay called Batvika. This soon proved untenable as an anchorage, so when the climbing party set off towards the mountain, the boat watchers moved the boat around to Kvalross Bukta on the northwest side of the island. Conditions were considerably calmer here and the boat watchers were able to spend time ashore among the whale bone graveyard on the beach.

Meanwhile, in the middle of the night, yet in broad daylight, the climbing party, having had a brief rest in the snow at 1,150m, set off again towards the steeper sections of the volcano. The shadow of the cone became defined below us on the cloud base and moved clockwise around Beerenberg, like a huge sundial. On top of the shadow was a feint, full-circle rainbow.

We reached the summit at 0805 after a brief belay up loose ice shards and enjoyed a magical view into the ice filled caldera. The trek back out was an arduous walk and by 1700 the climbing party was safely back on the boat having been walking for over 24 hours.

East Greenland

The second 2019 voyage, which was in July, visited the coats of east Greenland to the north of Angmagsaalik. While we had seen no ice in Jan Mayen, this voyage was outlined in ice, which defined the route of the voyage and the parts of the coast we could reach. The voyage became an ice negotiation.

When moored to a floe for the night among loose pack ice, we set an ice and bear watch on a one-hour rotation. While it did not get dark, the sun did go below the horizon with a prolonged sunset/sunrise. Although the air was still, the floes and bergs were gently moving. There were several individual seals on floes surrounding the boat. At about 0345 the seals started behaving strangely and as a group. Just before 0400 a polar bear hove into view among the nearby bergy bits. He was several miles offshore and swimming towards the boat. We were prepared for firm action, but he swam away after gentle gesticulations and calls from us.

Scoresby Sound

The third voyage which was in late August probed further north in east Greenland and into Scoresby Sund. The aim of the third voyage was to circumnavigate Milne Land, a large island inside Scoresby Sund. We saw no polar bears but were lucky enough to see several musk oxen.

Milne Land is separated from the mainland by a corridor of awe which is one nautical mile wide, 1,000m deep and the rock faces lead up to peaks 2,000m high. It is impossible to visually understand the scale as there is no calibration from familiar items such as houses or trees. By this time in the year it was getting progressively dark at night and was correspondingly colder. Having completed the circumnavigation, and with the evenings drawing in, prudence commended a return to Iceland.

In late September, as we approached the Arctic Circle from the north on our way to the safe winter harbour of Husavik in northern Iceland, I was looking forward with some anticipation to rounding off a satisfying season of celestial navigation.

After every passage, the intended landfall had emerged out of the horizon on the end of the bowsprit to much effusive congratulation from the crew and no doubt some surprise. In this instance, on passage back from east Greenland, my careful calculations and allowances, made despite the fog and magnetic variance were already looking doubtful as two islands which should have been visible from our course remained either invisible or had sunk. A bold headland emerged as it should on the end of the bowsprit. This longed for landfall subsequently revealed itself to be a mountain 20 miles to the West of our intended landfall on North Iceland. My understanding on reflection is that I had not made enough allowance for the East Greenland Current.

Some consolation for these navigational failings was provided by the appearance of the Northern Lights. Green swathes of light danced across the sky and seemed to rain down upon us. It was cold staying on deck to look upwards but enthralling. At one point it was as if a caligrapher was writing a Far Eastern language in the heavens. It seemed to be relatively close to us and the green was fringed with red.

In 2020 we plan to visit the Kangerlusuuak area of East Greenland and choose a mountain to climb. Following that voyage Integrity will sail to the West Coast of Greenland.

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Mayflower Marina to Drake’s Island, round it and then back, is all of about… two miles? So it was rather touching that Will Stirling and I had a send-off for our mini adventure; a farewell committee of young men in colourful tracksuits half-heartedly threw stones at us from the harbour wall as I rowed us out of the harbour into Plymouth Sound, Will counting each stroke as a tally of sacrifice: we share a deep loathing of rowing. Once out though, we had June sunshine, light airs, a bit of ebb under our keel, and an exciting destination: the historic, deserted, spooky Drake’s Island in the middle of Plymouth Sound.

Drake’s Island is a 6½-acre rocky outpost, resolutely truculent in hard volcanic rock, and surrounded by low cliffs on three sides, with shallows and jagged reefs ringing it. We felt our way through the shallow waters to its northeastern shore and pulled the boat up on the beach. The island’s known history of human habitation starts in 1135, when the chapel of St Michael (since demolished) stood there, and ends in 1989. Drake anchored off its seaward side upon returning from only the second ever circumnavigation of the world, after Magellan’s crew in the 16th century. It was during Drake’s lifetime that the island gradually assumed a defensive role. The Spanish Armada’s invasion attempt alerted the vulnerability of Plymouth to sea-borne attack, and Drake was charged with the task of fortifying Plymouth and its harbour, a job he started in the winter of 1589/90. Drake unloaded six large cannon from the Revenge and installed them on the east side that overlooked and protected the approach to Plymouth and the inner harbour.

In 1592, the government engineer Robert Adams drew a colour plan of the island, showing a gate and wall on the north-west side behind the modern landing stage. The Napoleonic fortifications that followed have since obscured the island’s Tudor history; these days, it’s a confusion of fortresses, battlements, garrisons, tumbledown buildings, overgrown tunnels and large cannon, pointing forever towards an unseen enemy on the horizon. For the last two decades or so, it’s been mothballed, and I suspect we’re technically trespassing, which, given both Will’s and my own laissez-faire attitude to such things, would not surprise me in the least.

We were sailing Will’s lug-rigged, three-quarters-decked expedition dinghy, launched in 2013. Will may now occupy one of the most enviable yards in the land, the No 1 Covered Slipway in Plymouth, but when I visited him to play at being a boatbuilder in February 2012, it was at his “old” shed – a rural, tin-roofed, inland building. I was there to help Will steam timbers for his boat, then in build. For some reason, Will seems keen to involve me in his oddball projects – probably because he knows I’ll go along with them. The dinghy is to be the chariot for Will’s self-appointed odyssey to sail around every lighthouse off the British coast. The plan is that one day this summer I will accompany him to the Farne Lighthouse off the Northumberland coast.

Techno and Rolling Stones numbers banged out of the stereo like an illegal high as we steamed the green oak timbers in, removing each scalding timber with bare hands then laying them across the boat and pushing them into shape.

For now, it was just good to be sailing the boat for the first time, feeling a little of the pleasure that a boatbuilder knows when he sails a boat crafted by his own hands. It was in comic contrast to our last time afloat a couple of years ago, in a sinking wreck; that too was back in February 2012… At 5am the morning after our boatbuilding stint, we were at Will’s house in Plymouth, and I discovered that he keeps weird and sinister things in his fridge, like dead polar bear paws and pre-mixed sandwich filler. We threw sandwiches together quickly (and carefully) and an hour later were trudging along the muddy banks of the Tamar, carrying two heavy iron spades and a faulty Seagull: plan A and plan B, respectively. By a clearing at the river’s edge lurked Will’s old harbour launch, a grey wreck tied to a tree. He waded out in an old-style rubber drysuit to free it, and paddled it over to the water’s edge. I took one step towards it and fell in up to the knees, the freezing brown water of the Tamar pouring in over the top of my sailing boots. Inside the boat was 6in (15cm) of water, and as I paddled, Will bailed, and a filthy grey rib-scape of wood, mud and drowned leaves slowly appeared. We had half a mile to paddle against a foul tide to the slip for hauling out. The boat must have weighed near a ton, and our only propulsion was two heavy spades – unless the Seagull started. And now, our scuffling around had disturbed a makeshift plug, and a coin-sized round hole in the hull was spouting water like a fountain. It was my first time in a properly sinking wooden boat and rather exciting. We plugged it with a twig and drifted backwards as Will repeatedly pulled on the Seagull. After 20 minutes, it burst into life and we were on our way.

Back on Drake’s Island in sunny June, we wandered among the 1860s-built casement built atop the low cliff. Here guns lie discarded, doors hang ever open, paint peels and room upon endless room, presumably once home to military personnel, is set into the inside of the stone fortress. In the almost-complete silence, we could hear, or feel, the Plymouth-Roscoff ferry, long before we saw it. We climbed to the top and ate our lunch on top of an enormous cannon, then returned to the boat slowly through a dark, underground tunnel, once used to transport munitions. The island has the strange feeling of unfinished business, its story cut off mid-paragraph, its future unwritten. These days, its most famous inhabitants are rare little egrets. The only other visitors were two urban explorers who arrived by kayak. It was lucky they had, as we needed their help pushing our dinghy back in to ride the flood back to the marina – the tide had left us high and dry. Sailing might be a comedy of minor mishaps, but I still think we will make it to the lighthouse – one day.

ends

Article reproduced from December 2014 issue. Aerial photo by Patrick Roach. To subscribe to Classic Boat, click here.

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The post Urban exploration – in a classic dinghy appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

Classic Boat/PPL Media exclusive, published in CB299. Read the story of how the photos were found by scrolling past the photos.Subscribe to Classic Boat here.

The valuable archive had been gathering dust in the Sunday Mirror Library, and was about to be dumped in a skip, when the London newspaper moved from Fleet Street to Canary Wharf.

By pure chance, Bill Rowntree, the staff photographer who covered Knox-Johnston’s departure and return to Falmouth in the famous 32ft (9.7m) ketch Suhaili, happened to be in the newspaper building the day of the big clear-out.

The pictures cover RKJ’s early preparations in Surrey Docks in 1968, the shakedown sail to Falmouth, his departure, including long-lost photos of his parents bidding him a tearful farewell, and all the pictures of his momentous return 312 days later as the only finisher in the Sunday Times Golden Globe Race.

Bill, now 73, recalls: “The picture library manager poked his head round the door and asked me if I had any use for them.” Rowntree put the box under his arm and took it home, and there the negatives may have lain, had it not been for a particular picture request from Henri-Lloyd, which supplied Knox-Johnston’s original oilskins, to mark their 60th anniversary celebrations this year.

The colour pictures in RKJ’s bestseller, A World of My Own, were lost after publication, but PPL Photo Agency holds what was left of the Knox-Johnston archive within its Pictures of Yesteryear Library. This also contains the archives of other famous sailing pioneers, including Sir Francis Chichester, Sir Chay Blyth, and photographer Eileen Ramsay, who captured many of these great events between 1949 and 1970. It was my call to Rowntree to see if he still had the negative for Henri-Lloyd that prompted the question: “What should we do with the other 3,000 pictures I have here?”

We organised for Bill and Robin to meet at the agency to go through the forgotten archive, and as the two reminisced, it soon became clear that we had found many historic pictures, and many more that had never been published before. Each fresh picture found led to another story as these two yarned the day away.

The Sunday Times race was spawned from interest generated two years before by exclusive coverage given to Francis Chichester’s solo one-stop circumnavigation. The newspaper executives were sold on fostering a non-stop sequel, seen then as one of the last great challenges left to man. Needing money to prepare Suhaili and buy supplies, Knox-Johnston approached the rival Sunday Mirror for sponsorship, which resulted in the event becoming as much a battle between the Sunday papers, as it was for the nine starters that set out during 1968 to capture the Golden Globe trophy, and win the £5,000 prize money.

The first that photographer Bill Rowntree and Australian journalist Bruce Maxwell got to know about it, was a call from the editor’s office. “My first thought was what have I done wrong, but Bruce and I need not have worried,” recalls Bill, adding: “We went into Mike Christiansen’s office and he introduced us to his guest. ‘Bill. Bruce. This is Robin Knox-Johnston. He’s going to sail round the world non-stop, single-handed, and you two are going to help him. Okay, off you go’.”

In my 36 years at the Sunday Mirror, I don’t think I ever had a shorter briefing – or a better assignment!”

FIT FOR PURPOSE
The three of them then went to have a get-to-know-you drink on one of the entertainment ships moored along the Embankment, where Robin told them a little about his previous life in the Merchant Navy, how he had built Suhaili during his time in India, and how he had sailed her back to London. “We found all this very impressive until a tug passed by on the Thames, and Robin was thrown off his stool by the motion. The question both of us thought, but didn’t dare ask, was: ‘If Robin couldn’t keep his balance on a ship moored in the Thames, how would he cope sailing alone at sea?’.”

Perhaps, because of this incident, the Sunday Mirror editor decided to send RKJ to a psychiatrist for assessment before his departure, and again on his return a year later. “He marked me down on both occasions as ‘distressingly normal’,” recalls Robin.
Bruce remembers: “The first thing Robin told Bill and me, is that we had to sail Suhaili from Surrey Docks to Falmouth to get her ready and sort out things like provisions, the radio, and other bits and pieces. I think he saw us as free-and-willing labour.”

Robin’s perception was that Bill did nothing but take photographs. “I had to tell him that there were certain activities in the confined quarters of a yacht that I just would not let him photograph!”

The trio then discussed roles. “Against my suggestion, Bruce was appointed treasurer because he and Bill felt that having collected the subscriptions, I might not return,” says Robin. “Bruce muttered darkly that the newspapers were full of stories of defaulting loan-club treasurers around Christmas time. I had to agree that since the treasurer was automatically in charge of the beer kitty, it was a natural job for any Australian like Bruce. I had to be content with being President instead.”

What I find so interesting now, is the pictures of the thin, clean-shaven Knox-Johnston when he set out, and the more fulsome figure that returned. He seems to have put on weight – but how? The answer is hidden below deck in the shape of a well-stocked tinned store. Which then begs the question: how did he find the room?

HOLD THE FRONT PAGE
The rivalry between newspapers for Robin’s story on his return to Falmouth in April 1969 was intense. On the one hand, there was the Sunday Times, loftily lauding it as their race; the Sunday Mirror, which had sponsored him; and the Sunday Express, which was trying to scoop their two rivals. Bill recalled one episode: “Cliff Pearson, our assistant editor, had established himself in the Green Lawns Hotel, Falmouth, to mastermind our coverage of Robin’s return. Before the start, Bruce and Robin had developed a secret code, so that anyone listening in to their radio communications would remain in the dark.

The Sunday Times were desperate for a sighting of Robin, but Cliff was not going to help them. That morning, with deadlines looming, there was a call over the hotel intercom during breakfast. “Urgent phone call for Mr Pearson, urgent phone call for Mr Pearson.”

Cliff picked up his papers and charts and went to the phone booth in the lobby, pursued by rival reporters. They watched as Cliff had a long conversation. As he left the booth looking very preoccupied, a slip of paper fell to the floor. The moment he turned the corner out of sight, the Sunday Times’ reporters grabbed the paper.

On it was latitude and longitude reference numbers. One reporter immediately drove to the RAF base at St Mawgan, where the photographer was waiting with a chartered twin-engine plane ready to fly out to sea. The pilot, photographer and reporter all leapt on board. “Just head south-west and I’ll give you Suhaili’s position as soon as we’re in the air,” said the reporter. A few minutes later he handed over Cliff’s piece of paper, and the pilot got out the chart to do his calculations. Very soon after, and without a word, the pilot turned the plane around and headed back to base. “What’s wrong?” The pilot looked pitifully at him and said: “This is the lat and long for Birmingham. Game, set, and match to the Sunday Mirror!”

PICTURE PERFECT
Out at sea, Bill and Bruce, together with a group of technicians, were stationed off the Scilly Isles aboard the MTB HMS Fathomer, playing ‘ducks and drakes’ with the passenger ferry Isles of Scilly, chartered by the Sunday Express. Bill recalls the sequence of events: “Shooting the pictures was the easy part; getting them back to the editor was the tricky bit! Back in 1969, there was no equipment made to carry out these difficult tasks at sea, but my two mates worked out how to transmit a picture using a Muirhead wire machine, normally used at football matches, via an HF link through Niton Radio station on the Isle of Wight. Making a print requires great skill on land, let alone bobbing around in a small boat on the ocean. I took my hat off to them. Without their enthusiasm and initiative we would never have got the pictures back in time. It was, I believe, the first time anyone had successfully wired a picture from sea back to a newspaper desk.”

The Isles of Scilly, which had a bigger radar set, had been tracking Fathomer, and alerted by the open-radio communications with Suhaili, was soon on the scene, and the two shadowed RKJ’s boat through the night. The Sunday Express team had one advantage over both the Sunday Mirror and the Sunday Times – they had Robin’s parents and family on board, but no wiring facilities. The Sunday Times had neither, having relied on the aircraft to get the first pictures.

In the end, the Sunday Times had to beg the Sunday Mirror to use their picture, which they were forced to publish with a Sunday Mirror credit on their front page.
It took two more days for Robin to reach Falmouth, where he recalls: “I was asked to hold back for a few hours and when I asked why, the response was not what I expected: ‘the Mayoress has a hair appointment at 09:00 and won’t be ready to greet you.’ I reluctantly agreed, but then the wind changed and I didn’t arrive until much later, by which time her hair was a mess!”

Robin’s first unsteady steps ashore on the Royal Cornwall’s landing were later marked for posterity with an inscription chiselled into the stone. It was only a few years ago that someone noticed that Knox-Johnston had been spelled without a ‘t’. Four decades on, and now with a knighthood and three further circumnavigations to his name, every sailor knows of Robin’s remarkable pioneering feat – and how to spell his name!

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From our May 2017 issue (CB347)

An insolent lump of ice scrapes against the bright-green oxidised copper fixed to the bow of the schooner Opal as we sail further into the frozen north. The sea is dead quiet. The black water appears stiff, but not frozen. As we sail deeper into the mouth of the Scoresbysund (Scoresby Sound, Kangertittivaq in Inuit), the number of ice chunks that break the black colour of the water as white speckles grows. Captain Heimir Harðarson gives the command to pull in the already reefed sails and pursues his course on noiseless electricity.

The ice propagates quickly: like curious, white, sea creatures coming to inquire from all around. Chunks become ice blocks, ice plates, and then a majestic blue iceberg looms at the horizon. The ice is everywhere now. Slush scrapes playfully but slowly against the copper and disappears under the bow. Carefully we approach Solglacier, a 12km-long (7.5 mile) ice mass moving at the slow rate of ten meters per day, which is considered a fast moving glacier. The unstoppable pushing mass creates a continuous deafening spectacle.

Shreds of mist drape against the black perpendicular basalt walls, which look down upon us like 2,000m-high gatekeepers on both sides of the ice mass. Over there, a blue, icy avalanche breaks loose with a sound comparable to a jet fighter breaking through the wall of sound while the turbine of a 747 is warming up 30m further away.

Blue ice is old ice. On the right, a thousand lumps fall towards the water, freed from the glacier to which they have belonged for thousands or maybe even tens of thousands of years. Opal quietly manoeuvres along, deeper and deeper into Scoresbysund.

Overwhelming nature

Scoresbysund lies in the northern Arctic Sea on the eastern coast of Greenland. The coordinates are 70° 32nd parallel north and 24° 21st parallel west which positions us above the polar circle. The area was named after an English whale hunter and explorer, William Scoresby. He mapped out the coast of the fjords in 1822. Scoresbysund stretches 350km (216 miles) inland into Greenland from the coast. Considering that there are side-branches everywhere, it also represents the largest fjord system on the planet. The water can be as deep as 1,500m and thesteep granite and basalt walls, which delineate the fjord, are sometimes as high as 3,000m. This is enough overwhelming nature to make you feel the smallest you have ever felt.

We sail from Constable Pynt, through Hurry Fjord in the direction of Ittoqqortoormiit. It is the biggest city in East Greenland, with no fewer than 429 inhabitants. “Until around 1800 the Thule used to live in the area, a people originating from the Inuit,” Þórður (Thordur) Ívarsson explains, technician and whizz-kid of Opal. “We may talk about global warming, but between 1650 and 1850 they were mainly talking about global cooling. This period is also known as the small ice age.

“The Thule, quite the tough type, used to icy cold, gave up on the area and for more than a century thereafter, no man would venture into these parts. The Danes and the Norwegians argued for some time about ownership of East Greenland and the Danish decided to expand their activities in 1925. So the Bureau of Colonisation of Scoresbysund placed 85 Inuit from West Greenland here: because they found remains of a Thule settlement in this place.”

Isolation

To better illustrate how isolated this area is; from October to June the sea is frozen, making it impossible to travel here by ship. The closest village on Greenland, with a staggering 90 inhabitants, is situated 800km (497m) south. In between, there is nothing. The closest inhabited world is Húsavík in Iceland, a 500km (310m) sail away over the northern Arctic Sea, and the home port of the Opal.

Ittoqqortoormiit means ‘place with big houses’. Those houses are placed there as bright-coloured Lego blocks with pointy roofs, dispatched against the dreary rocks. The dogs’ barking is deafening. There are three times as many dogs as humans living in this place. Someone needs to pull the sleighs! I climb on to the RIB and we cross over a slightly aggressive sea to the jetty. Several carcasses of seals are attached to the ladder and are swaying in the water. The sea acts as a fridge, and the dogs of Ittoqqortoormiit love seal-blubber.

Nice fatty meat

The family of Ingrid Anike heartily welcomes us. They are serving stewed muskox, nice fatty meat that resembles beef. Hunting is important here. The mouth of Scoresbysund presents an open water space between the ice in the winter, free of ice due to currents and winds, and therefore the place for life. Birds, seals, arctic hares and foxes, muskox and the mighty polar bear reside here. Everything is prey for the Inuit. “For the Inuit everything has an Anirniq, a soul,” Ingrid says. “Together they form Anirniit, the kingdom of spirits. The Inuit don’t honour anything, but fear all the more. This is not that surprising when the weather conditions are as deadly as they are here. As long as the Anirniit is satisfied there is prosperity. But if the spirits turn against you, oh boy…”

An Inuit killed by a polar bear? This is the revenge of Nanoek, the master of the polar bears. The boy who drowned in the sea a few hours before we arrived? Swallowed by Sedna, the mistress of the sea. Then there is Mahaha, a demon who terrorizes the entire arctic area and tickles its victims to death. People who freeze to death are often found with a smile on their face, “that’s why”.

We sail in Fønfjord. It’s the first time in three days that we are blessed with wind, and not just a little bit. Captain Heimir gives the order to set out all the sails. We hang on to the ropes until our hands burn and the sails are tight. In general the fjords of Scoresbysund are relatively calm without much wind, but it can be haunting as nowhere else when the Piteraq blows. The Piteraq is a katabatic wind, which originates from the Greenland ice cap and streams through the fjords. The ice cap is truly immense. Nine per cent of all the sweet water on the globe is frozen in this ice cap, which is more than three kilometers thick in some places. Due to ice radiation, there is always a high-pressure area above it. When this runs into a low-pressure area at the coast, fast winds may form, as strong as hurricane winds, in the fjords. Fønfjord is such an evacuation stream for the ice-cap winds. Luckily the wind remains at a steady Force 5 today.

A beautiful, cloudless blue sky and in a survival suit that defies the icy cold, black basalt towers above us. The towers slowly transform into gorging hills, covered in moss and other small plants. A muskox is grazing by itself while its soft hair flaps in the polar wind. My lungs fill with icy, salty sea air. The schooner’s rigging is tight.

The world around me is the world as it has been since the beginning of time; shaped only by natural forces and polished by the ice and wind. What to do if you wake up here, on a beach of black sand? Where would you walk to? How would you survive? If the cold doesn’t get you and if you manage to catch an arctic hare – which are so tame that one dares to come as close as two metres from us – even then the chance of you surviving and seeing another human being one day is minimal. Nature runs the show here and she is not generous in these parts.

Hybrid Sailing boat

As fast as the wind picked us up when we turned into Fønfjord, it let us down when we sailed into Rødefjord. These beautiful sedimentary mountains, containing a high percentage of iron (hence the name), reside by the water. However, the sailing part is finished for today. The gaff rigged schooner Opal was built in Bodemweert, Germany in 1951. From 1970 to 1983 it underwent its transformation to the elegant two-mast ship she is today, with her slender lines of oak and copper cladding. She was lovingly incorporated into the North Sailing fleet in 2013 with whom I sail on this journey. “It’s a special ship,” says Thordur, “It’s the first sailing boat with a specially designed ‘regenerative plug-in hybrid propulsion system’. In short, she has batteries instead of ballast. These batteries can be charged by means of electricity from the land, just as one would with a hybrid car.

“However, her batteries can also be replenished while she is sailing, as the propeller acts as a dynamo. The faster the ship sails, the faster the propeller turns and the faster the batteries are charged. This technique had never been applied to any other sea vessel. I am on board to improve the system to perfection. Ideally you could do away with the diesel motors. I’m trying to work this out.”

The result is that when we have no wind in the sails, the silence remains undisturbed, which is huge in these parts. We hear only the rippling water and at times a small chunk of ice against the bow. Opal also serves for whale-spotting in Iceland. Thanks to the silent movement, animals come closer to Opal than to any other ship.

The night falls; clear as crystal. The amounts of visible stars in the polar night give me an almost melancholic feel. A glass of Icelandic Brennivín, cooled by century old ice, which we have chopped off a blue ice-lump for this purpose, enhances this feeling. I’m staring at the star-speckled sky when suddenly, in a vague plop, a small green explosion stands out in the dark night. The spooky green light moves quickly in the night, blurs and clears. On my left, another explosion occurs, then right, then left again. Pink and orange gusts of fog are moving high up in the sky, sometimes as bright as spotlights, sometimes fiery. It’s disco time in the Greenlandic polar night. This northern light is sun wind, containing a lot of energy. The energy is released when it collides with oxygen and nitrogen atoms in our atmosphere. It is then beamed at a height of 80 to 1,000km (50 to 620 miles) in the sky in the form of the polar lights. I have seen the northern lights before, but never like this. Never have I seen them so clear, so many, so often. It is also the first time that I hear them. The night is long, as it is impossible to withdraw from such a spectacle. Who knows when you’ll see something as beautiful again? In this case it was the day after, then the day after that. Igaluk, the Inuit god of the moon is playing games with his brother, the god of the sun.

Gold and light blue

Beauty. Unsullied beauty. You are almost too afraid to turn your head to the right for fear of missing something on your left. As a travel writer and an avid sailor, I have been to many beautiful places on the seven seas of this planet, including Antarctica and Drake’s Passage. But the waters of East Greenland are the most pristine, beautiful waters I’ve ever sailed. I even prefer it to Antarctica because there is plant life here, whereas the South Pole is black and barren.

When we sail back to Ittoqqrtoormiit we encounter the Bjørne Øer, Bear Islands, so named because the crest resembles bear-claws. It is 4.45am and the sun is appearing with a thousand colours. The sleepy, sharp mountaintops of Bjørne Øer are kissed by pink sunbeams. The sea is flat but made of gold and light blue. At the horizon an iceberg the size of a small town breaks off. The remaining ice behemoth has lost its balance and is rolling around, creating rolling seagoing waves. Ultra-thin ice-pancakes have formed on the water during the night. This is a reminder that we must leave the Scoresbysund. The East Greenlandic wilderness is closing up and prepares for the ever-returning winter domination of a very harsh mother nature.

With our gratitude to North Sailing (northsailing.com) and WOW air (wowair.nl)

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The post By schooner to the frozen north appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

Of all the Earth’s places, it is France that has the greatest power to stir a particular unbiblical feeling in the breast of the British sailor; namely envy. Oh… and anger too. But then anger is just envy dressed for battle. We envy the Mediterranean and Atlantic seaboards and that her people have a love of sailing that can elevate men like Eric Tabarly to the status we reserve strictly for our footballers.

We envy the weather, the mountains, the food and wine, the terre, the mer, the double-entendre and the crêpes au sucre. And not least, the size, variety and cordiality of her sailing regattas. Then we get angry because we can’t conceive of how a people who drive so abysmally and who defecate into holes in the ground have managed to beat us so roundly in so many vital areas.

These were my thoughts as the whisper-quiet, state-run TGV shot silently across the rapeseed-yellow, zero-gradient landscape of Brittany from Paris to the Gulf of Morbihan at 200mph. Brittany is the real and spiritual home of French sailing and her regattas are big. Brest, which attracts 2,000 vessels and a million people every four years, is the biggest in the world, but Morbihan Week, with an attendance of around 1,200 vessels, is close. The French took control of their country in 1789, and they’ve never really let go since. Marinas are publicly owned and that means a town can offer free moorings for an event like this if it brings enough money into the area. The entry fee for Morbihan is zero and includes five weeks’ free mooring.

Two old friends were waiting aboard our boat for the week in Crouesty Marina: Ian Welsh, owner/skipper of the Classic Sailing Club, the classic yacht charter company based in Suffolk, and his lieutenant Brian Gascoigne, who had brought Marcita here from the East Coast. It was also a reunion with Marcita herself, the yacht I spent a cold March week on in 2007 doing the RYA Day Skipper course. She is an Alan Buchanan design realised by Kings of Pin Mill in 1957. She’s narrow, with a deep, long keel with a slight cutaway, no doubt a serious racing yacht in her day, not overly commodious but handy and fast with a bermudan sloop rig and roller-reefing jib.

She looked as sleek and distinctive as I remembered with her slim lines and hard-stepped coachroof. At 33ft (10m) she was the perfect size for three men, all skilled enthusiasts in the pursuits of drinking and snoring. Her name was spot on too because ‘Marcita’ means ‘little sea’, as does ‘Morbihan’ in Breton. A little sea on a little sea, we mused happily, as Brian produced a round of ‘stiffeners’ for us in the form of Lambig, a local Calvados variant made with cider, and we sat in the cockpit late into the night.

The world’s most complicated regatta

The next day, at skippers’ briefing, it rapidly became clear that La Semaine du Golfe du Morbihan (to name it fully), is the most complicated regatta in the world. Various crews walked into the briefing room looking chipper and full of bonhomie, only to shamble out moments later looking as though they’d stood a round with Mike Tyson. Brian, who leaves an imaginery thread behind him wherever he goes, complicated matters by walking around the building in circles, fearful of breaking it, though surely aware, as a Morbihan veteran, that we’d be snapping thread over the next five days. The reason Morbihan is complicated is due to the format of the regatta, as well as its sheer size. Compared to a normal regatta, Morbihan is a travelling circus; a raid writ large and for all sizes of boat – the fleet of actual raid, or ‘sail and oar’ boats, in itself numbered well over 200 boats. In total, more than 1,000 boats in eight classes stop at a different port every night. There were also persistent rumours of daily races, but as we never met anyone who raced, and as we saw no results posted, we never knew for sure, certainly never cared. At the various venues, live bands, food and music were also laid on. Organising Morbihan must be like trying to organise a postal service.

SAILING INTO THE GULF
The next day, we sailed from the Crouesty Marina out into the bay of Quiberon in a good breeze and some sun. In the bay, La Cancalaise, poster girl of the Breton working fleet with her wildly raked lug schooner rig making her one of the most distinctive sailing craft afloat anywhere, was sailing alongside the equally unusual Dorothy, a century-old Thames rater designed by Linton Hope to race on the Upper Thames, now with a small cabin. Her owners, Lance and Charlotte, would stay with us for most of the week. The fleet strengthened in number and variety as we turned right through the gap into the Golfe du Morbihan: Tall Ships, Breton fishers, yachts, rowing boats and dinghies drew silently closer, sails glowing in the sun, as we passed the island of Gavrinis – home to an important 5,000-year-old burial site. Our destination, Île d’Arz, in the centre of the gulf, was alive with boats and activity when we arrived. Paella was served from huge pans, and crew members from the boats wandered around under the trees.

The yachts rode to buoys a few hundred yards off, and on the beach there must have been 200 or more boats pulled onto the sand or anchored up in the still, clear water, in a scene that any small-boat lover would take to his own grave: various Swallow Boats, including a pretty double-ended Storm 15; some beautiful clinker rowing gigs; a Viking-inspired GRP NorseBoat 17.5; countless sail-and-oar or ‘raid’ boats; and some Guépards, a local class of boats that resemble gaff-rigged Wayfarers. They have been having a big revival of late, with 100 or so now on the Golfe du Morbihan, both restored and new: they are back in build, this time at Chantier du Guip, our 2013 ‘yard of the year’ that was behind the recent restoration of the French tunnyman Biche (see p34).

Through this happy mêlée, a colourful and eccentric Dutchman weaved his little 10ft (3m) ‘Muziek Boot’ (music boat), one hand on the handle of a miniature barrel organ, the other holding a trumpet to his mouth. After each song, he went fishing for tips with a basket on the end of a long fishing pole.

RIVER SAILING
An hour later, Ian, Brian and I, back on Marcita, were in complete solitude running slowly up the River Noyalo on a genoa and a rising tide, our only companions the cries of unseen birds. This is not an uncommon treat according to Brian, a veteran of the Morbihan – wind often seems to blow straight up and down the rivers.

RAINY NIGHTS AND TIDAL RACES

That night we picked up a buoy off Conleau and after a long shellfish dinner ashore, fell asleep on the boat to the sound of stereophonic snoring set to the white noise of a steady drizzle on the cabin roof. All night, Marcita snatched at her swinging buoy, riding up to it and falling off, a habit that is peculiar to her, and as inexplicable to us as the movement of the planets. The next morning we motored into a breeze stiff with drizzle, a dull journey out of the magical gulf and back to Crouesty Marina on the bay. The day was livened by the excitement of our first tidal race of the trip – the gulf was pouring out to sea in a river of saltwater fast enough to raise cataracts, whirlpools, oily mushrooms and standing waves.
We flew past the many islands at double-figure speeds on our 6.5-knot magic carpet, the currents snatching at the keel and rudder, making steering wild and unpredictable. The rain didn’t let up that day as we sailed back into the Gulf in the afternoon and made our way to Île-aux-Moines, but the shellfish that night was as good as ever.

Moitessier’s grave

A thrash across the tidal flow known as ‘the washing machine’ the next day, saw the fleet all around us being snatched this way and that by the unseen hands from below, then it was a drifty sail up the wooded River Auray for lunch as the sun returned. The bad weather that kept some boats from attending this year (1,050 still made it) sank at least one dinghy here and snapped masts and tore sails that day. For much of the week, in fact, we were beating into a Force 5 gusting 6, often sailing at nearly 7 knots under genoa alone. That night, moored off Bono, Ian and I walked to the grave of one of Brittany’s famous sons – the circumnavigator Bernard Moitessier. Unlike the unremarkable dead that lay all around, with their ranks of expensively solemn marble headstones, Moitessier has simply been buried under a small palm tree in a manner more befitting the family cat than one of Brittany’s great yachtsmen. As a reminder of his rigorous asceticism, someone had left as tribute an Opinel, the cheap, wooden-handled French folding picnic knife that Moitessier kept by his side when he sailed around the world solo in the late 1960s, rusted into an eternally open position.

The next day it’s time to abandon Marcita and spend the day sailing with François Vivier, a naval architect whose work I have admired for years. Vivier is the French king of sail-and-oar boats. He has designed many small, traditional Breton-inspired dinghies, dayboats and yachts, and it seems most of them are out on the water today, sailing around us, waving when they recognise François.

In his 24ft 7in (7.5m) gaff sloop Pen Hir, we sail past everything we see, before heaving-to for a lunch of ham sandwiches. After lunch, we stemmed the flow of one of the tidal races, our little boat stationary in what looked like a rapid from The African Queen. The amazing shape of Biche loomed close behind us. Supremely unflustered, François, smiling and relaxed in his trademark hat, gave me the order to steer away at the last moment. At least one photographer aboard Biche had his lens trained on us, expecting a disastrous collision. Biche’s helm was nervous, perhaps because he hadn’t realised François was the naval architect to the boat’s restoration. Or, perhaps because he had. A moment later, 66ft (20m) of sleek, wooden metre yacht flew past us – it was France, the French 12-M America’s Cup contender built in 1970, classed as a national monument and feeling water under the keel for the first time since restoration.

That afternoon, it was time for groundings and minor collisions as a fleet of hundreds made its way up the very narrow channel through the swing bridge into the pretty, historic town of Vannes, cheered on by spectators in their thousands. In the night, the great sails of workboats hung limp, drying under the light of the moon, the boats quiet and large on the water while a live folk band – a “rave up”, Brian called it – shook the sky above.

And already, just a month after, I’m feeling envious of Brian who will surely return in 2015 to pick up all the thread he left wrapped around the islands and rivers of this dramatic waterscape, where wooded islands merge and separate endlessly against the horizon as you sail by, and where white rivers of saltwater rage and boil every day. 

WHAT THE KIPPERMAN SAW

BY MIKE SMYLIE, AKA KIPPERMAN

It all went extremely well until, almost at the last post, some clottish dinghy sailor rammed us and my treasured hemp hat flew overboard. We chased after it, rowing madly, and I was just about to reach out an oar and retrieve it when a Dutch barge sailed over it and consigned it to the deeps of the Morbihan.

Well, in truth, it’s not that deep. However, the ‘little sea’, with its array of tiny islands and rocky coastline, does have notorious tide rips. The main channel that leads from its opening into the Bay of Biscay and follows the west side of the large Île-aux-Moines, northwards to the tip of Île d’Arz and up the narrows to Vannes has several rips, strong enough to surprise the hardiest of ocean sailors. In a 16ft (4.9m) Irish naomhóg (a Kerry canoe, a bit like an Irish currach with a slightly different shape) these can be spectacularly entertaining.

These skin-covered (or canvas in our case) craft are universally light, which means fighting with any headwind or having to go with the flow in these rips with names like la jument (which means ‘the kicking mare’) and ‘the washing machine’. Personally it felt more like being kicked into a tumble dryer, especially with the sun beating down hard and the wind buffeting us. But, pulling hard at the oars, a slight sense of panic, and with skipper Bart shouting “use your back, not your arms, man”, we came through without harm. Only then did he suggest that “that was bloody good fun”.

We – the small sail-and-oar flotilla – were marshalled through these rips with the safety RIBs buzzing around like bees. They were brilliant and saved the odd capsized sailor but, at the same time, they gave us the impression of being shepherded about. Indeed,
at times I think we had our very own bodyguard – the two lifeguards keeping their eye on us. Thankfully when a beam wind was pushing us towards a rocky shore, they pounced and towed us back. Any feeling of restraint was entirely my own fault.

But row we did, with vim. Starting at Vannes we picnicked on Île d’Arz the first day, rowed to Locmariaquer the second (against the wind for the last few miles), then almost back to Vannes (Port Anna) the next, then back past Locmariaquer, up the river to Auray, turn right and away up to Plougoumelen. Finally, on the last day, back down to Port Navalo to join the procession of 1,000 craft back to Vannes.

And what memories are left once the boat is on the roof and we’ve arrived home? The wonderful row up the river to Plougoumelen, the sunset that evening, or beating downriver the next morning and seeing a bride, all in white, crossing the old railway bridge at Bono on her way to church, and stopping to wave to the fleet? But the lasting image is of the colourful crowds lining the rocks and beaches, out in force to support their festival, unlike here, in supposedly maritime-proud Britain, where we’d rather go shopping. The oysters were plentiful, wine good and I have a spare hat at home.

NAVIGATING IN THE GULF OF MORBIHAN

Tidal races

If it’s your first visit, avoid Springs, which flow through bottlenecks (esp the entrance and between Île de Berder and Île de la Jument) at 9kts+. Night sailing is not sensible.

Other hazards

Oyster beds (marked by withies), bird sanctuaries in the south-east and fast passenger ferries.

Pilot books/guides

North Biscay from Imray covers from Brest in the north to Bordeaux in the south. The best chart is Admiralty 2371 at 1:20,000. There is also Imray’s C39 (Lorient–Le Croisic at 1:80,000), French charts from SHOM and Navionics 549 for digital. 

Marinas, moorings, anchorages

Crouesty Marina in the Bay of Quiberon is the perfect staging post. Vannes is the only marina in the gulf, but there are many moorings and anchorages. Use plenty of chain tidal areas.

Weather

Shipping Forecast, Biscay sea area. Radio 4, 198LW at 0048, 0520, 1201 and 1754 UK time.

RELATED ARTICLES

Biche: back from the brink – a tunnyman restored

Francois Vivier – a life in design

The post Semaine du Golfe appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

From the October issue (CB340). Story by DAVID SYCAMORE. Photos TIM WRIGHT

As a boy I remember trying to fix something – I cannot recall what it was or how I went about it – I just remember my dad looking at me critically and after a while he said: “Why, when you decide to do something, do you always choose the most difficult way?” That was over 60 years ago and I still don’t know the answer to his question. Somehow I always choose the hard way. Most people setting out these days to cross an ocean do so in a modern GRP, steel or aluminium boat with bermudian rig, furling headsails, crew and all mod cons. So why do I end up doing it alone in a traditional gaff rigged wooden boat with hank on headsails, bowsprit, top mast, top sails, miles of rope, and no fridge? Dunno, but that’s how it turned out.

A gentle northerly breeze was blowing as we left Mevagissey harbour on 19 June 2013, heading for the north coast of Spain. At that stage there was no plan for a transatlantic voyage, only the desire to get away for a while, cross the bay of Biscay and enjoy landfall on a foreign coast. I decided to work out the next steps as we went along.

Overboard

On the third day out the wind backed southwest in the afternoon and blew hard. I put the first reef in the main and stays’l then went below and lit the stove to keep warm. By nightfall the wind had increased again and more reefs were needed but I just couldn’t bring myself to go up in the dark and windy night to put them in, so I remained huddled below, hoping to get away with it, feeling every straining heave in hull and rig as if they were in my own body. It was a long hard night, and a welcome dawn when luckily the wind eased and backed east. I shook out the reefs, but as I stepped aft from the bow, where I was clipped in, I forgot about my safety tether, which got tangled around my ankles. Before I knew what was happening it tripped me up, and over the side. I managed to grab a stanchion as I went over, and ended up suspended against the hull, held by my feet at the bow, and my hands round the first stanchion aft. I was completely outboard, but dry. I tried to raise myself but could not lift my body by more than an inch, so took a rest to work out what to do. But with my body weight on my arms, resting was just as exhausting as lifting. If I could not get back aboard, the strength in my arms would soon fail and I would end up suspended by my feet, head down in the sea. The longer I delayed, the sooner that would happen. If I could not get back with the next attempt there would be no strength left for another go.

There is nothing like extreme danger to focus the mind uniquely on the task in hand, and somehow the strength for action comes only with that danger and that focus. Then something miraculous happened; a massive surge of strength came into me as if from nowhere, and I heaved until my left elbow and left knee got onto the rail, and heaved again until my body rolled over the rail and onto the deck. I was back onboard again, exhausted but safe. I gave the incident no further thought and continued to La Corunna, where I arrived the following day, 24 June. It was not until waking after a good night’s sleep that the full horror of my fall overboard finally dawned on me; it haunts me still.

Sally B is a traditional gaff yawl built by Ashley Butler in 2003 in the style of a Thames Bawley. At 12 tonnes displacement, with a 19th century rig evolved for inshore fishing with a crew of two, she can be quite a challenge to manage single handed. But over the years since I bought her in 2004 I had learned to sail her after a fashion, and had fitted an engine and a self steering vane to make life a little easier. However, being flush decked she had no cockpit, and that meant a lot of kneeling, standing, or at best sitting on a fender, and none of these were comfortable. It was not until October, when we reached Portugal, that the idea came to fit deck boxes. That solution would finally give me a spacious, comfortable “cockpit” plus some extra storage in the boxes.

Passage to Porto

My wife Christine joined me for the trip to Porto and we laid the boat up there until late the following summer, during which time she was hauled out for a refit. I repainted the top sides, anti-fouled her, serviced the engine and the standing rigging and fitted longer stanchions, with double lifelines to improve safety. Then the cockpit boxes were made up and fitted. I also fitted some cushions on the boxes and around the cockpit before putting her back in the water and heading south on 29 August, into unseasonal southerlies.

By now the idea to cross the Atlantic had taken shape and the plan was to reach the Canaries before the end of the year. After a slow windward passage down the Portuguese coast, stopping first at Nazaré then Lisbon, Sally B sailed for Madeira on 4 October, heading way out into the Atlantic at last. It took eight days to get there, then we ended up weather bound in Funchal for the next three weeks.

Bound for the Canaries

We left Funchal on 29 October bound for the Canaries, making landfall off Tenerife in a rising gale late in the evening of 1 November. We lay hove to all night under triple reefed main rather than risking entry into La Gomera in darkness. At dawn it was still blowing hard as I set the storm jib and we got underway again. Soon we were in the wind acceleration zone between Gomera and Tenerife and though it was a sunny day the wind was topping 40 knots and we were running hard before it, sometimes reaching the insane speed of nine knots for sustained periods (normally I am happy to jog along at half that speed).

Just after Gomera came into sight to starboard the main sheet suddenly flew out through the inboard block, releasing the boom to fly out to the leeward shrouds, beyond control. I quickly saw the cause of it. When in Funchal I had unreefed the main sheet to do some work on the boom, and when I rove it back in again I had forgotten to tie a stopper knot at the end! Now the sheet had worked loose from its cleat, and having nothing to restrain it, the fall had run itself out through the inboard block and into the sea. Unless I could get the boom back under control it would be impossible to hand the mains’l and make the harbour.

At first I tried to haul in the boom by heaving on the remaining parts of the sheet between the two blocks but this was a stupid idea. With so much wind in the sail all I got was torn hands and tired arms. I had to give up and rest for a while; to think what to do. Then a more sensible solution occurred to me. I recovered the fall of the sheet from the sea with a boat hook and after securing the end of it inboard I could haul the boom inboard using the full power of both blocks. With the main under control I returned to the helm and headed for the harbour. I was exhausted on arrival and very grateful to the marina staff for coming off in a launch to help us in. Once tied up I headed for the nearest restaurant, and after a colossal lunch spent the rest of that day and night in blissful oblivion. It took a week for my hands to heal.

On to Cape Verde

By now it was late in the year and I returned home for Christmas. It would not be until late January 2015 that I could return for the next leg of the voyage, down to the Cape Verde Islands, 1,000 miles to the south. During the break I bought a satellite (YB) tracker so that family and friends could follow my progress; a little yellow road inching out over a blue ocean. It also meant I could keep in touch with Christine and receive weather reports from her when needed.

On 4 February Sally B sailed from La Gomera heading south on a good northerly breeze. The trip to the island of São Vicente took ten days, the longest I had spent at sea so far. We arrived in the anchorage of Mindelo harbour just after nightfall on 14 February and the first boat I saw there was Nick Skeats’ Wylo II, whom I had last seen in Plymouth during the winter of 2012/13. The following morning he was over bright and early for a cup of tea and some catching up.

I had a lot of trouble with anchor drag in Mindelo and so decided to go into the marina where it was more comfortable, safe and convenient. We spent three weeks there during the height of carnival season, whilst I did final stocking up and preparations for the crossing to Martinique, 2,100 miles away. The most important part of my preparation was getting up the courage to do it, because by now the reality of my undertaking was beginning to dawn on me. Once away, there could be no turning back against the trades. I was both excited and scared at the prospect.

Setting out across The Atlantic

Scared or not, on 2 March the moment came and we sailed out of Mindelo harbour on a calm day under full rig plus the jib tops’l which I had decided at the last moment to set. Before casting off, I’d been warned about the acceleration zone between São Vicente and the nearby island of Santo Antão. I ignored the warning because the day seemed so calm, just a light easterly was blowing. As we reached the middle of the straight between the two islands the wind increased dramatically, and with the tops’l up we were hopelessly over canvassed. Leaving the helm to hand it made her round up quickly towards the shore of Santo Antão, just a little over a mile away, so I had to work quickly. By now both jib and tops’l were luffing and their leeward sheets became tangled together. Foolishly I tried to hand the tops’l by grabbing the mess of sheets and was rewarded by a flogging I will never forget. Ropes normally feel soft, but when they are on the loose end of a thrashing sail they feel like bars of iron. Within seconds I received five blows around head and shoulders, one of which destroyed my sunglasses. The sixth blow caught the knuckle of my right thumb, rendering it useless for the rest of the voyage. The problem was solved by backing both sails so as to stop the leeward sheets from flogging. A few moments later the tops’l was down and we bore away. Then, ironically the wind died and we lay becalmed!

Towards sunset the wind returned and over the course of the night, once clear of the islands we had 25 to 30 knots from east north east. I laid a course due west, starboard gybe, applied a lot of arnica to my thumb, had an early dinner and turned in. From then until we raised Martinique 17 days later I hardly touched the sheets or the helm. The vane held her on course, leaving me nothing much to do but watch and enjoy. Part of my solitary enjoyment was listening to Cesare Avora, a Cap Verde singer whose music I had bought on CD the morning of departure. I played it all the time, until on day 7 I found that the batteries were flat and I could not start the engine to recharge them. The rest of the voyage to Martinique (11 days), were without power as I could not get enough charge from my antiquated solar panel. Despite this the sailing was the stuff of dreams, running before a fully developed trade wind, with sunshine all day and starshine all night. Fortunately I was still able to listen to music because I had an iPod and two full re charge packs to keep it going. Often, at night after dinner I would stand up on one of the cockpit boxes, leaning on the boom gallows facing aft, looking at the wake racing out into the night whilst listening loudly to Van Morrison, Bob Dylan and others. Even if my thumb was still very sore and I had to fiddle with oil lamps every evening in order to have some navigation lights, it was wonderful; the sail of a lifetime.

Arriving in Martinique

Eighteen days out from Mindelo the coast of Martinique rose slowly on the western horizon. Without engine power I could not enter a marina unaided, and knowing that the anchorages in Martinique are all crowded with yachts I was wary about using an unreliable hook. In an anchorage I would have to leave the bowsprit out so as to be able to set the jib and sail clear if the anchor dragged. The thought of  trying to get out of a crowded unfamiliar anchorage under sail alone and at night, with the bowsprit threatening to impale all in its path, finally forced me to accept the indignity of a tow. And so it was that the last mile was made with the assistance of a launch from the marina at Port du Marin.

It was strange to see people again, to hear shore noises, and smell the earth once more. I tried to feel elated, tried to savour this long anticipated moment. But it was not like that at all; I just felt tired, unsteady on my feet, and hungry. That evening I went to the nearest restaurant for the luxury of a meal cooked by others. Then a heavy squall hit the island, with a sudden powerful outburst of chaotic winds, torrential rain and huge hailstones bouncing on the roads. People were running for cover, awnings were flapping and straining; the noise was incredible. And I was so glad not to be out there either on a strange shore in the dark, struggling to find an anchorage, or dragging my anchor through a crowd of other boats. Then a feeling of sweet relief swept over me, dispersing all my landfall blues. The squall passed, the night was clear once more. I smiled up at the sky, thanked my lucky stars, drank a bit too much, and went to bed, for a long and careless sleep.

The post Transatlantic alone on a wooden gaffer appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

Article from the current (November 2016) issue of Classic Boat. To buy copy or to subscribe, click here. Story by Marco Barneveld Photos by René Koster Photography

The 200ft (60m) three-masted barque Europa skims on the crests with a record speed of 11 knots towards Antarctica. Icebergs loom as bluish ghost ships from the fog. A part of our crew hangs sick over the railing. Captain Robert Vos peeks out on the waves from poopdeck, as the back deck is called. It is the first crossing to Antarctica that he makes with the slender training ship this year.

Our expedition has left a couple of days ago from Ushuaia. If all goes well, it takes three days to sail there and three days to get back. The rest of the time will be spent discovering the Antarctic coast. There is a stiff breeze, wind Force 8, north-northeast. Calm weather actually, for this stretch of water between South America and Antarctica. Because two oceans collide here, there are storms at least 200 days a year. In 1905, an exceptional tempest year for the area below the fiftieth latitude, more than a thousand large sailing ships sailed around Cape Horn. Of those thousand, 50 perished miserably with all and sundry. The three-masted barque British Isles, the same type of boat as the Europe, took ten weeks to pass Cape horn. Three men went overboard, three men died from injuries, three suffered mutilations, while five sailors struggled with frostbite.
Back then, death was a loyal companion.

Beyond the known world

On an ancient world map only one grim word is stretched across the entire southern hemisphere: brumae, the Latin plural for cold. No ship ventured so far from land, out of fear to sail off the world, straight to the gates of hell. In some stories the end of that world was a burning purgatory, others ventured to believe that nothing was left except icy cold, colder than death. Europe was the known world and everything that was situated beneath was Terra Australis Incognita, the Unknown Southerly Land.

The Southland was mysterious and prohibited; the hunting ground of the mystic man-eating Andophagi and the Monoculi, a weird, one-eyed race that, despite the possession of only one leg, was extremely fast.

The year was 1599. The Dutch ship Het Vlieghend Hert floated on the crests of Drake Passage, the strait beneath the southern tip of Tierra del Fuego. The ship had entered a hellish storm five weeks earlier and was almost torn to pieces by the pounding water. The foremast and the bowsprit were broken like matchsticks and a brisk northerly wind had drifted the ship far to the south.

The crew were repairing damage, but they couldn’t do it fast enough. Ice floes floated in the water and some of the crew now suffered from frostbite. This was not what Captain Dirck Gerritsz (1544-1608) had in mind when he left with a convoy of five ships from Rotterdam a year previously. He wanted to find a new passage to the wealth of India by sailing south of Tierra del Fuego. His mission seemed hopelessly unattainable now. Would they ever be able to get out and where in God’s name were they? Gerritz peered over the waves while thinking, when he suddenly saw high, mountainous land. “Full of snow, like the land of Norway.”

The historic passage was recorded in the travel journal of Amsterdam merchant Jacob Lemaire. If his word can be trusted, Gerritsz was the first to see the continent Antarctica.

Seventeen years later, Lemaire himself sailed into these southern latitudes. Aboard Unity he sought, just like Gerritsz, a new passage to India, together with skipper Cornelisz Schouten. Again, the weather is rough. Scurvy and other diseases break out. Yet Unity perseveres, and with success. On 29 January 1616 the crew sees land and they name it Kaap Hoorn after Hoorn, the Dutch hometown of Schouten. The most fearful cape in the world was discovered.

Rampaging sickness

In the era that Lemaire and Gerritsz explored the seas, an average of 15 per cent of the crew died underway. We have more luck, aside from those who wished they were dead because of their seasickness. Inside the sleeping area, the boat is constantly moist. Condensation drips like rain from the ceiling. My quilt and pillow are soaked. The thermal underwear I’m wearing hasn’t been off for a week. Flu is pumping through my blood, my throat hurts and with every breath I feel like my lungs want to explode. I am not the only one. The virus has free reign among the crew. It must have been like hell on the old VOC-ships. Sailors often possessed only the clothes they stood up in. They never washed because it is far too cold for that down here. Everybody had lice. It was even thought that a lack of lice indicated a terrible disease. One answered nature’s calls outside, but according to the old fire safety requirements sailors had to urinate in two buckets, in order to always have (smelly) firewater. Fresh air was supposed to come through the gun ports. But fresh air in minus degrees is just too fresh. The shutters were kept closed and the sewage stench was unbearable. Then, too, the cold and moisture ate every resistance. Flu and colds prevailed and lung diseases were common.

It’s half past four in the morning. In the twilight of the summer polar night I am commissioned to throw a pulley on deck that swings back and forth at the topsail. It sounds simple, but I have to climb on to the yard of the mast, which is around 30 meters high. Hesitantly, I put my feet from the crow’s nest on to the jackstay. My foot sways dangerously on the steel rope. My hands are numb. I throw my belly across the snowy yard and shimmy inch by inch, double folded to the far end. Which is all pretty hard, because the ship is also being thrown back and forth by the waves.

Antarctica getting busy

Europa is one of the few ships that still embarks on this journey. A bit more luxurious than before of course, with heating and a never dwindling supply of liquor at the bar. Most visitors to Antarctica do it in even greater comfort. At one point I spot a luxury icebreaker behind us. I count eight immense floors. On the plane home I meet a man who was aboard it. He tells me an Antarctic cruise costs $16,000. Gradually, Antarctica is getting busy. Ship owners already have to make arrangements to avoid over-crowding at interesting places. They kindly wait for each other to give passengers the impression they really are completely alone. Antarctica is big bucks, something the explorer James Cook, who first explored the continent in 1774, did not foresee when after a gruelling journey, he wrote full of disgust in his logbook: “This continent will never be further explored and visited. The world will not make any profit on it!”

END – SEE MORE PHOTOS BELOW!

The post To Antarctica on a three-masted barque appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.