NEWICK56
(Newick's 1955 adventures)
"Water Wandering in the Low Countries"
Richard C. Newick
"The Rudder", September 1956, p.7
(Retyped by Emmanuel ROCHE.)
One summer, in 1955, I took a 600 mile cruise through the rivers and canals of
Belgium, Holland and Germany to Denmark. My good companion, the Friend, was an
eighteen foot kayak or sailing canoe which I had built in San Francisco. She
was an excellent choice -- inexpensive, comfortable and able. Her rugged
thirty-two inch wide hull was molded of Fiberglass-reinforced plastic and
decked with one-eight inch mahogany plywood. She carried a handy twenty-four
square foot spritsail for use with favorable winds, and had Styrofoam
flotation built into her bow and stern.
It was to be the rainiest summer on record, but good equipment and friendly
people minimized this inconvenience. I had not yet learned to travel light, so
was burdened with a hundred pounds of gear. There was no tent at first,
although, eventually, I acquired a light German model. Instead of cooking, the
plan was to eat in a restaurant once a day or so, relying on bread, cheese and
fruit for the other two meals. Various unscheduled events such as a tow, a
favorable breeze or an isolated camping spot caused many hot meals to be
missed, but I was never hungry.
In Antwerp, I left the American freighter that had brought my boat and myself
from New York, and bucked into a stiff head wind on the grey Schelde River.
Entering the lock into the Albert canal, the sixty-five mile highway to
Holland, I was surprised to see the elderly lock keeper reading the latest
Saturday Evening Post. While we discussed routes to Denmark, the young skipper
of a 400 ton Dutch tanker came in and I was soon invited to be his guest as
far as the Dutch border. We had a bit of a language problem, but it was more
of a challenge than a handicap. Skipper Hans introduced me to his mate George
as we lifted the Friend aboard their vessel, the Agate. She was of riveted
iron construction with a lively sheer, bluff ends, and almost no freeboard
when loaded. Living quarters were comfortable, with the mate forward and
skipper aft. Spotless carpets were not dirtied by shoes because the wooden
klompen worn ashore and on deck were always left at the wheelhouse door. Under
way, it was fascinating to watch the skill with which the unwieldy craft was
snubbed around corners and fended off with small wooden fenders in tight
places. All lines were of flexible wire, requiring expert handling to heave,
belay and snub on the large oversized bitts. We tied up on the outskirts of
Antwerp that evening, and I retired to my cozy stateroom which was finished in
varnished mahogany and birch. Hans had explained that there was plenty of room
for me because his wife had stayed at home this trip to have their first baby.
The next day's travel was through intensively-farmed low country studded with
brick farmhouses and quiet villages. In contrast, the canal was busy with
commercial craft traveling at about five knots. They were usually self-
propelled, but many large barges of over a thousand tons were towed by pocket-
sized tugs. The flags were mostly Belgian and Dutch, with a few German, Swiss
and French. All were well maintained, having shiny black hulls, white or
varnished deckhouses and brightly-colored trim.
At dusk, we stopped for the night at the village of Beerningen, where we swung
ashore to the sloping canal bank on one of the long booms used to handle hose.
Supplies were purchased at the butcher, baker and grocery shops, which were
small rooms in the proprietors' homes. We then spent a pleasant evening at a
tiny bar where Ana and Mia, the owner's daughters, were impressed with the
skipper and his handsome mate. They hardly looked at the dumb foreigner who
spoke virtually no Flemish, French, Dutch or German. At 2:00 a.m., we were the
last customers, so Mama invited us into the cozy kitchen for bread and broth
before we returned to the boat, along the quiet canal banks under a sky shared
by a bright moon and heavy clouds.
At dawn, we got under way quickly. George, in shirt sleeves, ignored the
gentle rain and scrubbed everything on deck with soap and water. I found the
steering tricky, with the long narrow craft always ready to take advantage of
the least inattention. While I steered, Hans described life on the canals were
he had first served seven years as mate to qualify as skipper. His captain's
salary was about one hundred dollars a month, and prices were somewhat lower
than in the United States. He seemed quite satisfied with his life,
transporting fuel oil all over central Europe.
As the canal entered a deep cut in the hills near the border, I stowed my
gear, launched the Friend and bade farewell to the Agate's hospitable crew.
Soon, I entered the Juliana Canal in a dreary rain, but I was feeling snug and
smug as I paddled along, much more comfortable than I could have been in
any other small boat. With good equipment, even a rainy day can be
surprisingly pleasant.
At the little border station, I tied up astern of the Bram, a twenty foot
flat-bottomed Dutch sailing pram with large leeboards tucked up, and an
outboard motor clamped to the stern. Corrie de Keyzer, one of her crew, helped
me through the border formalities, which were so few that I wondered if I had
entered Holland illegally. At tea in the Bram's charming fifty year old cabin,
I met Mr. and Mrs. Kroon who, with Corrie, were returning from a vacation trip
to France. To their questions about my plans, I could only say that I had
arranged to have my mail sent to Copenhagen, and was headed that way on a
leisurely voyage. They thought it an unusual way for an American tourist to
travel, whereupon I explained that, as a boat builder, one of my purposes was
to study European small craft. I was trying not to be just a tourist.
The Bram towed me the few miles to Maastricht, where we tied up at the
Watersport Club, near the municipal park. The park was a fairyland of
delightful effects as colored indirect lights played on the foliage and
flowers. After supper aboard Bram and coffee in a sidewalk cafe, I slept
aboard the Friend, pulled out on a float, cramped but dry.
The next morning, the Bram overtook me and again offered a tow to the next
lock. Here, I decided to sail and reluctantly parted from my new friends.
Their boat, massively built of oak and completely varnished, was a pretty
picture, even without her rig. Pram bow, leeboards and mast tabernacle look
strange to American eyes, but these products of long evolution should not be
hastily cast aside in our modern search for practical small cruising craft.
Sailing was impractical behind the high canal banks, so I soon returned to the
double paddle. Young children, bicycles, dogs and drying laundry aboard the
passing vessels testified to the family life aboard. In the locks, I
discovered that my purchase of a horn in Antwerp was unnecessary. Instead of
blowing, I waited quietly until the lock was full of commercial craft. Then,
the lock master would wave us in, just as the massive doors swung shut. There
was always room for the Friend, but care was necessary to prevent a fatal
squeeze from my larger lock-mates as we were effortlessly raised or lowered
ten or twenty feet. Small pleasure craft were not charged for the use of the
waterways, but the skippers of the larger yachts often tipped the lock
attendants.
After a dull day of paddling, I was happy to enter the Maas River with its
varied scenery and helping current. I paddled late in the long northern summer
evening, and spent the night under a concrete loading ramp. When morning came,
it was hard to roll out of my dry sleeping bag to start downriver in a driving
rain. Friend shot downwind and downstream at maximum hull speed under a full
spread of sail. This soon felt unsafe, so I unshipped the sprit, tied the peak
of the sail to the gooseneck (a practical arrangement) and continued reefed,
but still at top speed. After roaring past several villages and riverside
inns, I started thinking about hot food and an open fire. I landed and
explored a muddy British army engineers camp, where I talked to several men
who were building a military bridge. They recommended the Ferryhouse Inn at
the village of Well, a mile downstream, where I found a room, an open fire and
hot water for a bath. The hostess introduced me to her other guests, Mr. and
Mrs. Renckins and their pretty daughter, who were vacationing from The Hague.
They spoke excellent English, and we found much to talk about and to explore
in the neighborhood.
A one-day visit with these pleasant folk was not enough, and another grey dawn
made it easy to decide to stay over Sunday. Until the war-ruined church could
be rebuilt, services were being held in the barn of an ancient castle. Its
interior, with a network of giant oak beams overhead, seemed a natural setting
in which to worship a Man with a divine nature who started life in similar
surroundings. After attending church with the Renckins, I enjoyed watching the
local farmers stop at the inn for a glass of beer, a game of cards or
billiards, and the local gossip. Later, many Dutch and English soldiers came
in for a jolly evening of song.
Early Monday, I paid my bill of less than five dollars, and started downstream
under a cloudy sky, bucking a stiff head wind. At the next lock, food supplies
were replenished at a floating store where I met the skipper of the tug Nelly,
who gave me a ride. After spending a lazy afternoon with his pleasant family
in their snug wheelhouse, I left them rather hurriedly, above the lock at
Nijmegen, while the lock keeper waited for me to squeeze in. Then came a slow
two mile paddle, up the wide and swift Waal River, to the city. Here, I met
Hans and Herman, two enthusiastic young members of the Nijmegen Kayak Club,
who invited me to spend the night in their clubhouse, an old sailing barge. It
was surrounded by about fifty brightly-painted kayaks, more than I had ever
seen in one place, an indication that the Dutch know a fine type of craft when
they see it.
In the morning, the boys helped me shop in their ancient city, and showed me
their flat-bottom boats built of half-inch soft wood. The larger ones were
often fitted with sail and daggerboard. Hans and Herman paddled with me a
short distance up the busy river, but could not keep up when Friend started
sailing. Fortunately, a strong following wind enabled me to make slow progress
close to the bank out of the main current, so that I soon turned the bend into
the lower Rhine. Here were many vessels, some as large as 1,500 tons, which
ran between the coastal ports and Switzerland. It was only a few quick miles
down to the entrance of the smaller and more winding Ijsl River, where I
stopped at a village to watch farm families take advantage of a rare dry day
and the long summer evening to do the haying. Almost everyone in the small
towns smiled and greeted me. Perhaps my grey cotton slacks and plaid woolen
shirt marked me as a foreigner. Most men wore either a suit jacket or working
coveralls. Wooden shoes were not something to be sold to tourists. They were
used afloat and ashore, every place but in the large towns. It was an odd
sight to see a farmer or boatman in modern dress, astride a shiny bicycle,
with his feet encased in clumsy looking klompen.
After a night under a tree in a riverside pasture, I awoke looking into the
soft brown eyes of several curious cows. A damp fog burned off during the
morning as I lazily drifted toward Zutphen where the important railroad bridge
led a charmed life as the target of Allied bombers during the war. The town's
business district had not been so lucky, and destruction was heavy. I shaved
and ate at the new railroad station, then talked with several yachtsmen in the
attractive willow-shaded harbor while tea was served aboard a twenty foot
sloop. Although I only learned a few words of Dutch, language was never a
serious barrier as the friendly people often spoke English. Otherwise, we
relied on smiles and gestures.
Here, I left the interesting and helpful river to enter the placid Van Twente
Canal. The well-traveled commercial arteries were behind me, and I spent the
next few days in little-used canals, en route to the network of north German
waterways. At Delden, I stayed at the youth hostel which was crowded with an
international group of young people who where obviously enjoying their walking
or bicycle tours. Hot food was good, as were the cold shower and laundry
facilities.
The following day, I was happy to accept a short tow offered by a canal
maintenance barge which took me to Almelo, the home of an active sailing club.
There, I went through a lock with four kayaks manned by Dutch Boy Scouts on a
cruise. I enjoyed the next two days with them, cooking meals together,
sleeping in hay-filled barns, and trading boats occasionally. Kayaks were
probably the only boats that could have made it through several weed-choked
sections of the canal, where we helped the lock tenders turn the manually-
operated valves and open the rusty gates. The point where we crossed the
German border was a few miles from any station, so we walked through the woods
and fields to report our presence to the customs and immigration offices,
where formalities were few.
The only indication that we had crossed the border were the size of the dogs
(the Germans like big ones) and the fact that the next lock keeper charged us
twenty cents a boat. At Nordhorn, my exuberant companions took another route,
leaving me paddling in the rain. The straight canal passed through a deserted
forest and, for the first time on the voyage, I was lonely. At dusk, I reached
the lock into the Ems River, where I asked the attendant for permission to
sleep in a thatched shed. My request was put across in very poor German and I
had trouble understanding that he did not want any fires made. I thanked him,
wondering what could possibly burn in that deluge, and was very soon asleep.
While eating and contemplating the morning mist, I was invited in for tea by
the family whose young son, a kayak enthusiast, later helped me shove off in
the Dortmund-Ems Canal. The chart indicated seven locks in the next twenty
miles, so I tied on astern of two 650 ton barges that were towed by a steam
tug with a high funnel hinged at its base to permit passing under low bridges.
The nearest barge had a nine foot diameter steering wheel mounted horizontally
in the stern, and her helmsman needed all that leverage on a large rudder to
manage his 150 foot craft. Despite careful steering, the unwieldy boats often
went weaving down the canal, like a convoy performing antisubmarine tactics.
A few timber rafts passed us, floating slowly toward the sea with two raftsmen
using big sweeps for steering. Their accommodations were a small tent and an
iron cook pot amidships. In the late afternoon, I cast off the tow to enter
the Ems-Weser Canal, and paddled for several miles, looking for an inn. I had
no luck so, once again, I camped under a bridge, along the canal bank. Next
day, a few times I took advantage of a fitful breeze, but paddled most of the
way through a forest where the only people were the crews of an occasional
boat. Out of food and water, I was glad to stop at a canal maintenance station
near Bramsche, where I left the boat and walked through green fields to the
ancient brick town. After a bath, shave and haircut, a good meal made me feel
like the Kaiser himself. Before turning in at the old hotel, I explored the
prosperous looking town, and tried to read the mottoes and Biblical sayings
carved into the timbers of the tilting medieval houses. My casual pedestrian
habits were dangerous here, because a silent bicycle was always sneaking up
unheard, or motor bikes came screaming around the twisting street where I was
dreamily contemplating the architecture.
The following morning was spent patching the Friend's bow and stern, which had
been insufficiently reinforced when I built her. While waiting for the plastic
to set up, thoughts turned to an improved boat and I decided that, for a
similar trip, I would prefer a kayak with less windage and weight, about
fifteen feet long with thirty inch beam, and watertight bulkheads for
flotation. Also, I would carry far less gear, and try to reduce Friend's
fully-loaded weight from 220 to 150 pounds. A small sail adds greatly to the
fun, but complicates the question of beam. This might be solved by a narrow
waterline beam with reserve buoyancy for sailing near the sheer.
When the plastic cured sufficiently, I took advantage of a gusty favorable
wind with rain squalls, and made good time. That night was spent under another
bridge where I awoke damp and firmly resolved to get a tent and, soon, my
spirits rose as I quickly resumed sailing, shooting off ahead of a tug with
five barges. Then, they slowly passed me, a tight squeeze in the narrow canal
with vessels also passing in the opposite direction. I decided to raise full
sail and live dangerously. It was wonderful. The tug and barges were quickly
passed and never seen again. At first, I reefed down for the worst squalls,
but finally got used to sailing through everything, including some very wet
downpours and a vicious hail squall. The only regrets were the lack of a watch
to time the speed, and the lack of a cameraman ashore to record the Friend's
performance. I was proud of her.
At Minden, I left the canal and descended forty feet in the deepest lock of
the voyage, to the Weser River. Here, I paddled under the canal, which crossed
high overhead, on a broad stone aqueduct. Above the pretty town of Minden, I
found an English army engineer installation where several outfits were
participating in a gala regatta day, with competitions in bridge building,
rowing and rafting, plus well-patronized refreshment tents and recreation
activities for the troops and their families. Here, I was happy to find a
place to store the boat for a few days while I visited friends in Hanover, an
hour away by train.
I returned with still more gear to stow: a small tent, a pair of leather short
pants and a marvelously complete guide to German waterways, Das Deutsch Fluss
Und Zeltwanderbuch. It was good to get back on the smooth flowing river,
loafing along and enjoying an unusually warm day. At sunset at a village
camping ground, I met Mr. and Mrs. Fritz Eplinius from Berlin who have seen
most of Europe during their thirty or more summer vacations of cruising in
their folding kayak. I was impressed by their efficient camp, and enjoyed
their company, although I wished that I spoke more German. That night, the new
tent kept me dry and happy during a wild rainstorm.
In the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Eplinius overtook me on the river while I was
studying German from a pocket phrase book and letting the current do most of
the work. After I noted that the current was weaker, I lazily took a tow the
last few miles to the charming village of Hoya, where the rowing club kindly
invited me to be their guest. The club's youngsters were getting a thorough
training in a type of boat common in Europe, beautifully clinker built, about
thirty feet long by three feet wide, with sliding seats but without
outriggers. Maybe rowing could even be made popular in the United States with
such fine easily-driven craft, but most of us seem to be too accustomed to the
noise and speed of gasoline power.
The following morning, I again headed north, hoping to reach Bremen that
night. However, the current was not strong, and I slowed down and joined a
large group of campers several miles upriver from the city. Supplies were
procured from a low farmhouse back under the trees, and I enjoyed examining
the camper's equipment. Many small sailboats had waterproof cockpit tents, and
their occupants were remarkably comfortable. Most interesting were the canoes,
larger than, but similar to, the American open canoe. These boats were decked,
had rakish windshields and were, usually, driven by light outboard motors.
Many also carried sails for use with a favorable wind. When dragged ashore,
two people often slept in them under canvas covers stretched over flexible
steel hoops set into the gunwales.
After an enjoyable day with the vacationers, I headed for Bremen. Here, I
spoke to the first American since leaving Antwerp just a month before. In
tidewater again, I welcomed the help of a strong ebb that swept me downriver
to a fine camping spot near the famous Abeking and Rasmussen Yacht Yard. The
river widened here, and provided some exciting and dangerous sailing before I
reached Bremerhaven. Several times after the tide turned against a strong
following wind, the Friend buried her eight foot forward deck as she tried to
go through a steep wave. The camping spot of the Bremerhaven Canoe Club
welcomed a tired wanderer, that night. I stayed two days in this important
port which, like Bremen, showed much war damage.
I was glad to get into the narrow Geeste-Hadelner Canal that meandered through
the low farming country between the mouths of the great Weser and Elbe rivers.
It is not much used, but provides a fine route for small craft having no
desire to brave the dangerous North Sea coast. A night was spent at the resort
of Bederkesa, where tea-colored bog water formed a shallow lake. While sailing
along the narrow canal the following day, I let my attention wander to admire
a trim and tiny motor cruiser. The Friend must also have been attracted,
because she wandered, too, and smacked her nose on a sharp piece of masonry at
the canal bank. Temporary repairs were made with a handkerchief stuffed in the
hole. At Ottendorf, I camped in the lock keeper's yard, and explored the fine
old riverside town.
Out in the five mile wide mouth of the Elbe River, I was glad that things had
been stowed with the weight aft as I raised sail and settled back to see how
the strong favorable wind would treat me. Conditions were similar to those in
the Weser River entrance, except that the waves were larger and the bow
lighter, which made for a safer trip. I passed several seagoing vessels close
aboard, and seemed to cause much comment on their decks. At times, I would
have liked to watch from such a vantage point myself. I shot the thirteen
miles to the Kiel Canal entrance in less than two hours. The canal traffic was
international, and gave me my first look at the charming old Scandinavian
motor sailers. The strong following breeze held until late afternoon. Then I
continued paddling to Oldenbuttel, where I polished off a big meal at the
village gasthus to celebrate the longest day's run under my own power --
thirty-seven miles.
The following day was spent paddling until mid-afternoon, when I dangled the
painter at an ancient canal boat with round ends that was limping along with
motor trouble. Her young helmsman cheerfully belayed my line, and I spent the
rest of the afternoon dozing and writing letters. I was surprised once by a
shouted greeting from a pretty racing kayak that effortlessly rode the wake of
a fast large vessel. She looked as if she had been designed right on to the
wave she was riding so jauntily.
With a feeling of satisfied accomplishment, I left the canal at dusk and
glided into Kiel Fjord in the soft breathless light. A full moon rose over the
far shore, and echoes of ferry whistles chased the dying rattle of a shipyard
air hammer across the still water. The yacht club looked too fancy, and the
canoe and rowing clubs had been passed in the dark, so I camped in the
depressing ruins of the former Kiel naval base, lulled to sleep by the fine
music of a nearby open air concert.
After a day in Kiel, I was anticipating Denmark's delights, but I did not care
to test Kiel Bay's thirty-five miles of open water. Instead, I returned to the
canal where passage was easily secured in a modern 1,300 ton Dutch freighter,
the Rijnborg of Delfzyl, with a cargo of coal for southern Denmark. Other
passengers were two German students headed for Sweden with their bicycles.
As we followed the channel into sparkling waters, Denmark promised to be one
of the highlights of my long, still uncharted journey.
- "Water Wandering in Denmark"
Richard C. Newick
"The Rudder", October 1956, p.21
(Retyped by Emmanuel ROCHE.)
Denmark in mid-August is a pleasant place in which to make the most of a
northern summer's long mild days. The almost fresh waters are used to the
utmost by descendants of the sea roving Vikings, who keep alive a great
nautical heritage. The low farming countryside does not obstruct the steady
winds, and sandy shores provide fine shelter and hospitable harbors.
Naestved, in southern Sjaelland, is where the kayak Friend and I were landed
by the small Dutch motor ship Rijnborg, whose English-speaking skipper kindly
helped me purchase charts, a phrase book and a Danish-English dictionary.
Before starting to Copenhagen, I spent two days paddling along the inviting
shoreline while a persistent head wind encouraged the idea of acquiring a
small double ender which would be more at home than a kayak in those
boisterous waters. The thought soon ran away with me, and it was exciting to
dream of building a small cuddy forward and cruising Scandinavia until the
weather indicated a southerly course, then heading through the canals to enjoy
a mild Mediterranean winter. Only one item was lacking -- a small double ender
with both sail and power.
Arriving in Vordingborg's ancient harbor late in the afternoon, I was met at
the club by half a dozen Optimist prams, handy little eight footers whose
design originated in Florida. Their young crews eagerly took care of the
Friend, while Erick Knudson invited me aboard a large motor yacht he was
skippering. We found a great deal in common. After I spent the night at the
youth hostel, we explored the fishing harbor for my new dream boat, which
Erick thought might be found for about $400.
There seemed to be nothing available but, when talking to Vilhelm Rasmussen,
the local boat builder, we discovered that his personal boat, an eighteen foot
Helsingor Jolle designed by Aage Utzon, was for sale. While eating lunch with
Erick, I studied her tall rig, clinker hull and small mahogany cabin through
binoculars. Even then, she was sold. Erick said that the price of $575 was
very fair but, later, I was told that it was quite high. In any event, my
values were influenced by what she would bring in San Francisco -- certainly
more than double that figure.
Inspection showed everything nicely done, with no unnecessary gadgets. Two
canvas berths extended into the cockpit, which was large enough for a day
party of four, and could be covered by canvas to form an extension of the
cabin. Cooking was done on a portable single-burner Primus, and a bucket
served as toilet. I was impressed with her windward ability, despite her
shallow thirty inch draft. With a beam of six feet, 160 square feet of sail,
and one ton displacement, her able designer had captured the character of the
old fishermen and, at the same time, improved her performance. As for changes,
I planned on getting an outboard motor, to take her south through the canals
and, perhaps, make an old-fashioned sprit rig with easily-stowed short spars.
The name of Amiga seemed suitable.
It was arranged that the Friend would be stored at the Rasmussen and Egholm
boatyard and that I would live aboard Amiga while the transfer of title was
being arranged. I slept poorly the first two nights, but only because of the
exciting cruising possibilities presented by my new floating home. Most of my
meals were taken with the hospitable Rasmussen family, where I slowly picked
up a few words of Danish, and Vilhelm quickly enlarged his small English
vocabulary.
Late in August, all was ready for departure to Copenhagen. Vilhelm's brother
Ruben went along on the two-day trip, and I was glad to have his company. The
first day's run was through narrow passages where well-tilled farms and short
stretches of forest came to the edge of almost tideless water. White houses
along the cliffs marked the small harbor of Rodvig, where we arrived in mid-
afternoon. Because it was a municipally-owned harbor, we had to pay a fee of
thirty cents. In contrast, most of the larger Danish harbors were built with
government funds, and are free to pleasure craft.
Our evening meal was typical of my fare while cruising in Amiga: creamy milk
to drink, a main course of stew or soup, which ended as a tasty combination
christened stoup, with fresh fruit for dessert. This was nourishing and
inexpensive, easy to prepare in the cockpit while surveying a new harbor in
the early evening light. When I was alone at sea in a typical Danish breeze,
the boat required too much attention to permit cooking, so sandwiches made of
substantial Danish rye bread sufficed.
The trip from Rodvig to Kobenhavn (as Ruben taught me to say, instead of
Copenhagen) was made unusual by fog and calm for several hours. Landsman Ruben
worried about what I was sure was only a temporary situation, so I let him row
until his anxiety melted into fatigue. Late in the afternoon, a breeze cleared
the air, and we were soon scudding along between the island of Amaga and the
city, where we were delayed by two bridges that only opened for commercial
craft.
Dusk found us in the old Lystbaadhavn, a park-lined yacht basin only a few
minutes from the downtown area. The guest moorings were taken by several large
plush yachts, mostly German, so we were assigned to the berth of a Danish
count who was out cruising in his converted lifeboat. A neighbor introduced
himself as Niels Torp, and kindly asked if there was anything he could do for
us. Soon, we were hearing sea stories of bygone times, when he had roamed the
world as a ship's carpenter in the last days of sail. Hearing that I had lived
in San Francisco, he was interested to know if the damage of the great
earthquake and fire had yet been repaired.
So began two pleasant weeks in one of the world's most charming capitals. The
United States embassy started the necessary machinery to get the Amiga her
American papers. A small storm mainsail was ordered, and I found much of
interest in the busy city where every Dane was a friend. Parks, castles,
statues, harbors and canals were joined by winding streets and wide boulevards
which were often crowded with pretty girls riding bicycles. The USS Baltimore
tied up near the yacht harbor, and the blue jackets charmed the girls from
their bicycles to stroll arm-in-arm through the city.
The fall weather was crisp and sunny, much nicer than the summer had been, but
little cruising time remained so, one Sunday, Amiga and I started up toward
Helsingor (Elsinore). As I was casting off, two University of London students
asked if I knew where they might rent a boat to cruise the harbor. This, I
suspected, was a suave request for a ride. They were soon aboard, and proved
interesting company on a leisurely passage to Rungsted, fifteen miles north
over a sail-filled sea. The Danes seem to have a higher proportion of sailing
yachts than is found in the United States, especially in lengths between
twenty and thirty feet. Typical is the Folkebaad, Scandinavia's most numerous
class. These twenty-five foot clinker-built boats have deep cockpits, cabins
suitable for two or three, and give a snappy performance.
Like many Danish harbors, Rungsted's had been constructed or large rocks,
forming breakwaters out from the low sandy shore. Here, we found a snug berth
with Amiga's stern tied to the bowsprit of a seventy foot motor sailer, one of
the numerous black-painted, oak-built cargo carriers that have not changed
much in the past hundred years, except for their present wheelhouses, diesel
power and cut-down rigs. The steel motor vessels and modern transportation
methods are making them lovely anachronisms.
An hour's travel next morning, with the lee rail not quite awash, brought us
to an imposing sight dear to the hearts of generations of seafaring Danes --
Kronborg Castle. The sixteenth century fortress, less than three miles from
Sweden at the northern entrance to the sound, enabled Danish rulers to collect
a tax from all vessels entering the Baltic, as late as the mid-nineteenth
century.
Amiga danced around the point and into Helsingor's north harbor, just out of
cross bow range (I hoped). Here, I spent the next ten days while exploring the
castle, the half-timbered town and the rolling countryside. The castle houses
Denmark's extensive marine museum, a fine collection of models, paintings and
relics of the sea well worth two visits.
One memorable evening was spent with Aage Utzon, Amiga's talented designer,
who lives in active retirement at the edge of a nearby forest. Entering his
200 year old cottage, my eyes bounced around the room. Models, drawings,
photographs, trophies and relics from far places fascinated me, as did our
charming host, who had designed many of Scandinavia's most successful craft.
After an evening of enlightening conversation over good coffee, I returned to
Amiga's cabin, pleased that Villy Jensen, a sailing acquaintance, had arranged
the meeting.
Cooler weather, shorter days and stronger winds suggested a quick start south
toward Kobenhavn. I left on a cold breezy day, when the cockpit cover
sheltered all but my head and shoulders that protuded from the deep cockpit.
This practical arrangement helped to make fall cruising a real pleasure.
At the capital city, I picked up the new seventy square foot mainsail, paying
thirty dollars for a well-made Egyptian cotton sail. I also found a used two
horsepower Swedish Penta outboard that seemed to fit Amiga exactly. One gusty
day, I resolved to wait no longer to take a quick look at Sweden. The small
main and snug cockpit cover proved their worth on a rough downwind crossing to
Malmo, where two efficient customs and immigration men gave me the most
complete going over I had received since getting a passport in San Francisco.
Ashore, I was whisked downtown by a yacht club member who drove fast on the
left-hand side of the street, a scary new experience for me. The Swedes seemed
prosperous and friendly, but more reserved than the Danes. Malmo seemed rather
characterless after Kobenhavn's charms.
When I asked directions of a young Swedish schoolboy (almost all of them speak
some English), I was amused to be told: "Follow this street until you come to
a statue of a horse with a king on it." The Swedish language, while similar to
Danish, is more melodious and, perhaps, easier to learn for an English-
speaking person.
I returned to Denmark on a day that started calmly, then built up to a vicious
black hail squall which blew Amiga into a calm that finally ended when a
favorable breeze carried her into Dragor. Here, I was pleasantly trapped for
several days by a strong southerly. I used the time to work out a good stowage
system, renew the running rigging, fashion a bracket for the outboard and make
more friends.
Dragor's buff-painted brick houses still show a Dutch influence dating from
several hundred years ago, when the king invited a group of progressive
Netherland farmers to settle there and teach the Danes "modern" truck farming.
I visited Herr and Fru Grauballe, a young couple, in their comfortable
waterfront home, enjoying their conversation and learning much about Denmark.
The southerly blew persistently so, early one morning, I snugged down for a
dusting and clawed south until a favorable slant gave me one of the best rides
of the trip. On the blue Baltic, streaked with white foam, with fluffy clouds
overhead, it was a day to inspire a poet. Later, Amiga rocked gently in Rodvig
harbor where Ruben and I had called a month before. A chilly evening was spent
in the cheery forecastle of a fifty-four year old ex-cargo schooner whose
crew, Gunnar Hansen and Hans Peterson, have an unusual seafaring trade --
stone fishing.
When they told me their occupation, my first reaction was to wonder what kind
of valuable large stones were found in Danish waters. From the stoutness of
the vessel's gear, I knew that she handled heavy loads. My hosts laughed and
pointed out that every stone was valuable in low sandy Denmark. The sea bottom
is one of the country's main sources of this important building material. They
dive and grapple for large stones, selling them for $2.50 to $3.00 a ton.
Salvage equipment was also carried. They figure that, with a crew of three,
the vessel has to earn $6.00 an hour to pay wages and expenses. About sixty
vessels are similarly occupied in Denmark, but some of their skippers, like
Captain Hansen, spend the long winters as officers on larger merchant vessels.
During the all-too-short evening, I heard many a well-told sea story,
including some about how they had outwitted the Gestapo during the war, while
smuggling refugees to Sweden sandwiched between a false double bulkhead in the
cargo hold.
A cold rainy trip brought me to Nyord, a two square mile island where customs
seem to have remained unchanged for two hundred years, except for the addition
of a few modern machines. Almost every islander lives in a thatched village on
the hill above the small harbor, and farmlands are divided in a medieval
manner, whereby each family owns a portion of each type of land scattered over
the well-cultivated island. I was made to feel welcome as I explored the
slopes, watching a bountiful harvest being gathered. Fishing and piloting had
evidently rounded out the economy in the past, but fertile farms seemed to
have best survived the stress of modern competition.
The next day, I headed for Kallehave, then went on to Vordingbord where Amiga
and I were warmly welcomed by the Rasmussens and others. On October 1, 1955, I
shivered as I wrote the date and recorded in the log that, for the first time,
the summer green was noticeably fading into autumn's brilliance. I sailed away
one dark morning, when I should have stayed in harbor. That wild downwind ride
proved Amiga's ability beyond my fondest expectations. The steepness of the
eight foot waves that quickly built up in fifteen miles of open water amazed
me. The small main was soon entirely too much sail, but I did not dare leave
the helm to use the roller-reefing gear. A steep breaking sea caught broadside
would quickly have finished the boat. I could only continue rushing down the
advancing mountains while I managed to keep a life preserver handy, and untie
the safety line I usually secured around my middle when sailing. I was headed,
I hoped, for Bisserup, a poorly-marked little fishing village on southern
Sjaelland's shallow shore. After almost getting trapped in a long row of fish
net stakes, I thankfully found the entrance in the fading light and zoomed
through to quiet water inside.
What a contrast. Cows grazed peacefully near fishermen calmly mending nets. I
got the sail down and a line ashore before wearily sinking to the deck,
wondering at the local unconcern for my obviously great feat of seamanship (or
stupidity?).
Then along came Jon Hansen, hotel owner, sailor and one time San Franciscan. I
do not know which of us was happiest to see the other. We had a great evening
reminiscing in his warm hotel, and I learned much about far corners of the
world, even something new about California. Jon had spent only two winters at
home since he was fourteen, and he dreamed with a sailor's restlesness of the
South Seas. When he tested Amiga the following morning, I noted his
appreciation of her good points. How long, I wondered, could this able sailor
resist the sea's call, blind as he was to the charm of this ancient Viking
base where he had grown up.
The weather had changed completely, with only a faint suggestion of the
preceding day's sea as Amiga and I headed for Svendborg by way of Lohals.
Svendborg, one of Denmark's most beloved towns, probably sees more of the old
sailing vessels than any other harbor. It was here, in the Ring Anderson
shipyard, that many of them were built from carefully-carved models. I was
helped to a berth near a permanently-moored barkentine school ship by Arne
Christiansen, another single-handler. In his exceptionally able twenty-three
foot Norwegian sloop named Colin Archer, he had sailed to England the previous
summer. We enjoyed getting to know each other, despite a limited mutual
vocabulary.
Arne, or Ulle as he was known to his friends, was a carpenter who had retired
at a young middle age to spend his summers sailing and his winters preparing
for the summers. He lived a simple bachelor life on a small budget, and had an
interesting philosophy envied by many. The day our courses parted, as he
headed toward his home in northern Denmark, I little realized how soon we were
to become very well acquainted.
I, too, tried to leave Svendbord's busy harbor, but head winds and current
conspired to keep me there long enough to meet Captain Asker Kure aboard his
old English-built ketch Santa Maria. A master mariner of the old school,
Captain Kure had retired from skippering his own cargo vessel around northern
Europe to live aboard his yacht, which he had bought with a world voyage in
mind. The day we met, he had returned from a single-handed voyage around Fyn,
Denmark's second largest island. I went to look over the businesslike vessel,
and soon found myself in the comfortable main cabin where the skipper and I
discussed many common interests. He had grown up in sail, spent several years
in American West Coast steam schooners, and was proud of his vast knowledge of
commercial sailing vessels. We found ourselves talking more and more of a
world cruise.
The following day was dull but suitable for sailing among the small islands to
Aero Island, my jumping-off place for the voyage to Kiel. In Soby harbor, I
was delighted to find my friend Erick Knudson installing new tanks in the
large motor yacht he skippered. I enjoyed some good discussions with his
brother-in-law Helmut and with Herr Neilsen, the young engineer of the local
marine engine factory. This fascinating low-overhead shop employed twenty-five
craftsmen to produce thirty-five different models, an uneconomical arrangement
perhaps, but the owner liked the challenge of new problems and tried to fill
every special request for two-cycle heavy-duty engines of from two to 150
horsepower.
Near Soby, I also inspected the dusty interior of an old windmill used to
grind grain. Its leisurely-flexed arms seen on the horizon were deceptive. Up
close, they whooshed around my ears to deliver enormous power to the rumbling
machinery.
A delay caused by bad weather on Kiel Bay enabled Ulle Christiansen to reach
me by phone and propose a radical change in my plans. "Why not spend the
winter with me," he urged, "then cruise the rest of Scandinavia in the spring
before heading south? It's far too cold to go now and, besides, I'd like to
learn English." I accepted the kind offer and we agreed to meet in Nyborg
harbor, northeast of Svendborg. I set off to join Ulle in Nyborg, where we
spent a few days with harbormaster Thiesen, a rare combination of commercial
seaman and yachtsman with an expert's knowledge of the sea. Ulle and I amused
him with our minor language troubles, which usually arose when I assumed that
Ulle was speaking Danish whereas he was really attempting English.
Sailing from Nyborg, Ulle and I discovered that our boats were quite well
matched as cruising companions, and I never tired of watching Amiga's staunch
escort slice through the cold water of Great Belt and the Kattegat.
The winter slipped by at Ulle's hospitable home, a seagoing structure that had
started life as the bridge of a Canadian mine sweeper. Standing a few feet
from the icy Kattegat, it was ideal for us with our boats drawn up under
shelter just outside the door.
A great many friends helped the winter pass almost too quickly as plans formed
for a world cruise in the Santa Maria, and Amiga and Friend were readied for
shipment to San Francisco.
- "Water Wandering the Coast of Europe"
Richard C. Newick
"The Rudder", November 1956, p.20
(Retyped by Emmanuel ROCHE.)
The Channel haze suspended us in a vague horizonless world, as the gentle
breeze in Santa Maria's 1,200 square feet of sail nudged her along, from
Dunkerque to Dover. The captain, engineer, sailmaker and cook was in the
wheelhouse enjoying the usual mid-afternoon snack while the first mate,
carpenter, and deck hand sanded and painted the rail back aft. Yipper, the
vessel's black cocker spaniel, had found that he could absorb the most sun by
dozing atop the heavy dinghy which was lashed over the main skylight.
The sun's warmth was still a novelty to the crew, who had spent the long
winter in Denmark. The month before, we had a very literal shakedown our first
day out of Svendborg, then the gods were kind and we couldn't have asked for
finer weather to help us through the busy Kiel Canal. At Cuxhavn's salty North
Sea port, bonded stores were put aboard while we closely watched the weather
forecasts.
Gladly leaving the inhospitable port, we had proceeded out into the justly-
feared North Sea under ideal conditions. At last, we had felt that the voyage
was really beginning; we knew each other and the vessel, and felt ready for
almost anything the cruise might bring our way.
There were to be times when we would have welcomed some help when double
reefing the flogging main or sweating up forty fathoms of heavy anchor chain.
The Danish skipper had retired rather young with a weak heart. A lifetime in
commercial sail and motor vessels, both as captain and owner, prepared him
well for world cruising in his sixty-two foot ketch. I had signed on as far as
San Francisco -- "if we should get so far" -- a prophetic remark that Asker
seemed to enjoy repeating.
The Santa Maria was a girl with a past. Built as a gaff-rigged yawl on the
Isle of Man in 1907, her early activities are unknown but, about the time of
World War I, she was captured in Norwegian waters with a load of contraband.
The years between the wars, she spent as a motor vessel traveling the fjords
in the service of a Norwegian company. After World War II, she was purchased
by a weekly magazine, re-rigged, and made famous in Scandinavia when she
crossed the Atlantic on Colombus' original course with a popular Danish
journalist aboard.
Below deck, she had comfortable accommodations for six or eight in three
cabins, plus a practical-sized engine room. A useful, unstreamlined deck house
sheltered the helmsman and also contained a berth and chart table. High
bulwarks around the flush deck and simple, well thought out gear made it
possible for the two of us to handle her with surprising ease.
The buoys of the mine-swept coastal Channel southwest from Cuxhavn had
simplified navigation and kept a steady stream of shipping in highway-like
lanes. I benefited from Asker's voluminous nautical knowledge as each passing
vessel brought to his mind many facts of interest. We soon fell into our
seagoing watch system of four hours on and four hours off.
Three days later, Santa Maria nosed into Scheveningen harbor, a spotless
resort and fishing town adjoining the Dutch capital of Den Hague. Here, I
enjoyed visits with friends made the previous summer while more stores were
put aboard. The unseasonable northwest wind held steady, so we took advantage
of its help for quick hops to Zeebrugge, Belgium and Dunkerque, France.
Several hours of rain and fog off Dunkerque had made us grateful for the
extremely large and easily seen French buoys, probably the world's finest.
In Dunkerque, only an occasional modern apartment or business building rose
from large areas of ruins, but the shipyard at the harbor entrance had an air
of cheerful activity. La belle France! Where else is wine so good and
inexpensive? Where else do obliging customs officials so efficiently ignore
foreign yachts? Where else is the individual still so important?
We would enjoy returning to the varied French coastline but, now, England
attracted us to its south coast, probably one of the world's finest cruising
areas. Off to starboard, the Goodwin Sands Light Vessel marked a dangerous
graveyard, so we welcomed a bit more breeze to offset a stiff tidal current
and take us toward the break in the chalk cliffs where Dover Castle's ancient
battlements brooded over the famous Channel port.
A strange excitement accompanied my first English landfall, a hard-to-describe
feeling that must have anticipated the warm welcomes we were to find in every
English harbor. Dover started things off with a courteous official welcome,
plus greetings from the Royal Cinq Ports Yacht Club. The inner harbor offered
calm shelter and companionship among a variety of vessels, including a Colin
Archer ketch, Brixham trawler, Thames barge, and steam yacht, plus assorted
converted war craft and conventional vessels. A former yachtsman befriended us
and did much to make our stay even more pleasant. Yipper, too, found much of
interest ashore, and gave us several anxious hours while he leisurely explored
the town with some English canine friends. The English are a bit stuffy about
visits from unquarantined animals, so we were pleased to get the dog aboard
again with no official fuss.
In Dover, we were joined by Asker's wife and Reg White, a friend of mine from
California, neither of whom particularly enjoyed a rough Channel crossing to
Boulogne, where we spent a good day. Looking down from the ancient city wall,
we observed an endless procession of festive school children, then took refuge
from a shower in an ice cream shop where the jolly proprietor delighted in
giving us the latest word on local politics, history, and economics. Like many
Frenchmen, he was remarkably well informed. The ice cream was good, too.
In every one of the forty harbors we visited during our cruise, Asker and I
made it a habit to cover the waterfront together, observing and discussing the
many interesting craft we discovered. In this way, we found the Argus, a small
Danish cargo motor-sailer which had departed the year before for Panama with
an adventurous family aboard. Sickness, poor equipment, shipwreck, and finally
lack of money had plagued them. The son told us the sad story while showing us
the vessel and introducing us to some Belgian and Dutch passengers he had
agreed to deliver 1,000 miles up a large South American river, with a cargo of
their homestead goods. It was a weird arrangement, by no means the only one we
met during our travels. Truly amazing is the number of inexperienced people
who aspire to nautical adventure. Almost every port disclosed a sad story, a
captured smuggler, penniless single-hander, or frustrated refugee. We could
have filled the Santa Maria's nine extra berths several times over with as
strange a crew as ever trod any deck.
The Channel was good to us as we returned to England and tied up at Newhaven,
not a very pretty place, but active. Here, another friend from the United
States joined us for a few days after Mrs. Kure and Reg left and we cruised
slowly to Shoreham, near Brighton's busy beaches, then on into the Solent to
famous Cowes on the lovely Isle of Wight. I enjoyed visiting many yacht
builders all along the coast, and was impressed with the extremes of modern
progress and old-fashioned methods I found. In small, fast-sailing craft, the
English are most advanced, but their power boats often seemed badly
proportioned to these American eyes. Many of the ocean racing craft were very
fine -- as they should have been for the price! It was surprising to note that
labor and materials were valued quite equally in Denmark, Germany, Holland,
and England, but the prices of the English-finished product were, usually, ten
or twenty per cent higher.
Leaving the boat at Cowes for a few days, I saw a bit of the country around
London, where every few steps seemed to introduce another famous setting from
history or literature.
Under way again, the fabulous weather continued, providing a sparkling reach
past the Needles to Poole, during which we were saucily passed by a Flying
Fifteen -- one of Uffa Fox's fast small boat designs.
In Shoreham, Asker had been interviewed by a reporter from a London tabloid.
This character did a fabulous job of stretching and ignoring the truth, coming
up with a wild story about "the captain who was sailing to the South Seas to
die..." It was awful, but evidently provided some romance for the masses,
because a gentleman from the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals looked us up in Poole, and wanted to be certain of the dog's safety.
They had gotten a couple of hundred letters from readers who were concerned
that the dog might be abandoned at sea on a skipperless derelict.
An early morning start and overnight passage took us along the high rugged
coast to Torquay's snug harbor. Out in the bay were three American warships on
a summer cruise, with many cadets aboard. The popular resort town was jammed
with vacationers who enjoyed walking along the quay. We secured alongside a
small Dutch freighter whose witty captain had tacked this sign to the gangway:
Don't ask what flag this is
This is a DUTCH flag
Learn the flags of Europe!
This underlined the fact that I, too, had been sadly ignorant on the subject
of national flags when I had arrived in Europe the previous year. Much as I
deplore nationalism, it seems wise to be able to recognize the colored cloth
that others might think important.
A lazy sail took us to Dartmouth, through the castle-guarded river mouth,
where we found the voyage's most beautiful anchorage, a fairyland snuggled in
steep green hills. As with almost every port, we could have stayed longer, but
the sea called and, soon, we were snug in Plymouth's inner harbor, just a few
feet from the steps where the Mayflower pilgrims had embarked. Miss Greta
Yeal, whom I had met when she was an exchange teacher in California, kindly
showed us Dartmoor, the surrounding countryside, and the rebuilt modern city
which had risen from war's destruction.
Then, we headed across the Channel to the charming rocky shores of Guernsey,
hidden in a thick fog which made us glad for the help of our pressure-
sensitive sounding device lowered on a thin wire as we felt our way in over
the bottom. Here, in St. Peterport, we were pleased to meet another Danish
yacht, the fine forty foot sloop Skjoldnaes, bound for the Mediterranean.
Often, in the weeks to come, we were to be in adjacent berths in many
different harbors with Allesch, Vilhelm, and Katie. She was a wonderful cook
and hostess (typically Danish), who insisted that we, on Santa Maria, share
their elegant meals.
Leaving the island of cows, tomatoes, and tourists, we sailed in company to
ancient walled Saint-Malo, where we found, too, a charming cook -- Else Aaare,
a Danish girl who lived in Paris, changed her vacation plans and sailed for a
month along the French coast with us, soon becoming an enthusiastic and able
sailor. The ports of Camaret, Belle-Ile, and Saint-Nazaire were visited as
warm favorable winds continued to aid us on our journey southward.
At Ile d'Yeu, the voyage almost ended sadly. We secured Santa Maria alongside
the sea wall in the small harbor, in order to check her rudder and scrub her
bottom after the ten foot tide left her high and dry. Due to a freak accident,
we were neither high nor dry. The poor old girl fell away from the wall, and
crashed her bilge on a very solid harbor bottom in three feet of water.
Fortunately, no one was hurt and the rig miraculously survived the terrific
jolt. But the hull was another story. Water poured in, soaking everything in
the port lockers. With plenty of sympathetic help, including the local
volunteer fire department, with a big pump, we righted her on the next tide.
Inspection showed four heavy double oak frames broken, but the pitch pine
planking remained surprisingly intact. During the next two hectic weeks, Asker
and I removed half the vessel's copper plating, giving a local caulker access
to seams and butts, which were the worst offenders. Finally, with many
forebodings, we were ready for a trial run which turned out to be an
uncomplicated one-day sail to La Rochelle. To be sure, she leaked more than
usual, but the skipper thought she would be safe enough for coastwise travel.
So, instead of heading for San Francisco, we decided to take her to the
Mediterranean, where Asker would winter and I would look for another boat
heading for the States.
Sailing out between the medieval towers of La Rochelle harbor, we waved a sad
adieu to Else, who had so cheerfully shared our good and bad fortunes.
Even the Bay of Biscay behaved herself and, five days later, we dropped the
hook off Vigo, Spain, in a mountain-ringed bay that rivals San Francisco's.
Here, we again met the French catamaran Tohu-Bohu, which we had first seen in
Camaret. She was a steel thirty footer bound around the world with two likable
young Frenchmen.
Vigo is poor, and sunny Spain was a police state, but we enjoyed our short
stay and were well treated by the proud Spaniards. Never had we seen such
crowded fishing craft; thirty footers with ten crew members were not unusual.
And the phosphorescence in the bay. Every moving thing on or in the water was
surrounded by pearly fire at night.
Heading down the coast to Cascais and Lisbon, we had a variety of weather,
including two days of absolutely flat calm, a few hours of dense fog and a
couple of days of mountainous seas which were, fortunately, without the wind
that had made them.
Portugal was a pleasant surprise. Conditions were much the same as in Spain,
and the only people we met who took life very seriously were the passport
police and customs agents. Cascais, just inside the entrance to the broad
Tagus River, is a popular resort where sleek racing craft tangle moorings with
a colorful fishing fleet. The open air fish auction on the beach contrasts
strangely with nearby gleaming villas. Lisbon harbor was interesting to us
because of the large fleet of sailing cargo lighters which accomplished a lot
of work despite strong tides and unpredictable winds. While there, we also saw
several of the stately schooners return from a season of fishing on the Grand
Banks.
In and around Lisbon, many fishing boats were being built with a bare minimum
of equipment. Graceful craft emerged under the skilled hands of people with a
great maritime tradition. Timbers and planks were hand-ripped from two foot
diameter pine logs in surprisingly quick time.
As in France and Spain, we noticed many slightly obsolete craft rotting on the
beach. They had often been sound when abandoned, causing us to wonder why new
vessels were being built, instead of using those available. One boat yard
disclosed a shapely oak double ender that had obviously started her seagoing
in the Danish islands. Inquiries showed that a dark night and a sand bar had
combined to end an unlucky smuggling career at the entrance of the Tagus
River.
Off to the south, we spent a quiet day at Cadiz, were much American war
material was being unloaded at the docks.
Heading for Tangier past Trafalgar's unimposing point and across the busy
Strait of Gibraltar, we were blown back by a force seven Levanter with a nasty
steep sea. We didn't care to strain the vessel when it was so easy to duck
back into Cadiz. Next day, we were similarly caught, but had progressed
further, so decided to keep going through a long rough night. At dawn, we were
punching to windward under a reefed staysail and double-reefed main when Asker
started the reliable Perkins diesel. The faithful old girl used only a few
gallons an hour, weathering her test nicely, but we were glad to round up into
the shelter of Tangier's new breakwater, and spend a week in that fabulous
international smuggling center. "Business" had been poor, due to greatly
increased Spanish and Italian jail sentences for those caught, but many a fast
grey motor vessel seemed to be held in hopeful readiness.
We had been looking forward to a visit at Gibraltar for many weeks, so were
pleased when a lull in the persistent Levanter gave us a lazy day of sailing
through the impressive straits to the Rock.
Here, we were beset with almost every kind of official mix-up, but a couple of
days of paperwork got the officials semi-straightened out. By that time, we
were quite ready to leave. Even the kindness of Commander Woodhouse, the
Queen's harbor master, could not disguise the fact that the English Navy did
not encourage or welcome visiting yachts. The same could be said for a social
club that goes under the name of Royal Gibraltar Yacht Club.
The nicest thing that happened to us in Gibraltar was meeting George Boston, a
single-hander just over from Swampscott, Mass., aboard his Tahiti ketch
Fiddler's Green, which he had done a fine job of building himself. He was
bound around the world, and we admired his able start.
Glad to leave the Rock's depressing military atmosphere, we headed into the
Mediterranean where we met a fleet of Russian fishing vessels and mother
ships, headed into the Atlantic. During my night watches, I was happy to let
Santa Maria steer herself while I stood in awe at the bow, watching cavorting
porpoises far below in the crystal phosphorescence. Their antics always amuse
me but, that night, I stood entranced as their pearly trails wove below and
exploded on the surface.
Malaga's large port contained more sailing cargo vessels than we had seen
previously on the cruise. Fourteen schooners were counted, busily loading and
discharging grapes, wine, farm produce, bars of lead, and general cargo. They
were fine looking vessels, but mostly with diesels replacing topmasts.
Here, we met Sigrid and Ditter, two young Germans who expressed a great
interest in our voyage and, soon, found themselves invited along. We welcomed
their company on the night watches, and their help in the galley and on deck.
A one-day inland bus ride from Motril took us to Grenada's fabulous Alhambra -
- a gem of a Moorish castle high in the mountains. Sigrid's comprehensive
knowledge of the history of art made the trip doubly worthwhile, as she
elaborated on the background of what we saw.
Ditter had to return home from Almeria's sun-baked port, but we were to enjoy
Sigrid's pleasant company until the end of the passage.
The southern Spanish ports were all much the same along a dry rugged coast,
ill suited for much except some mining, fishing and a few almond and olive
trees. The people were always friendly and usually poor. The harbors had seen
the ships of many conquerors come and go, including Phoenician, Greek, Roman,
Carthaginian, and Moorish.
Before heading for the Balearic Islands, we called at Cartagena, then at
Alicante, where we met two fine English yachts. The Thanet, a sloop about
seventy feet over all, belonged to Mr. Somerset, a well-known yachtsman whom
we were happy to met. Speedwell was a twenty-five foot Virtue type which had
been sailed from Hong-Kong to England by her previous owner. Now, John and
Laural Goodwin were returning from the Balearic Islands in her, and he was
planning a solo Atlantic crossing.
The fickle Mediterranean winds slowly glided us to Ibiza's island harbor under
a high white town -- a place to be remembered forever with a full moon
frosting the harbor and ancient ramparts, shamming an occasional light in the
still, narrow streets. Here was real tranquility -- a dream haven. One of the
residents was Tom Crighton, and ex-San Franciscan whose book Sailboat Tramp
had helped to start my wanderings. His husky Colin Archer ketch named Jack
London was quite a change from the twenty-five foot sloop he had sailed from
Sweden to Israel some years before.
Leaving Ibiza's charms, we set the course toward nearby Palma de Mallorca, the
last harbor to shelter us on our five-month cruise from Denmark. The Club
Nautico of this modern city is a fine collection of facilities and pleasure
craft. Here was one of the few places we visited where the Santa Maria was not
conspicuously large. Among a fine international fleet, the American flag
graced the sterns of the Zaca, Ticonderoga, and Fiddler's Green.
Almost too soon, I found a berth on the Adara, a forty foot Spanish-built
sloop headed across the Atlantic. It was not easy to say goodbye to Santa
Maria and her crew. We had had a fine cruise, even though we had not reached
San Francisco.
- "Water Wandering the Atlantic"
Richard C. Newick
"The Rudder", December 1956, p.28
(Retyped by Emmanuel ROCHE.)
Morning, noon and evening, I gazed seaward from the outer mole of Malaga's
busy harbor, waiting for my boat to come in. The late October 1955 weather had
been mean, with heavy rains and the typical winds of that part of the world,
either too much or too little. Europe had been my cruising region for sixteen
pleasant months but, now, it was time to turn homeward. In Palma, Mallorca, I
had fortunately met the Adara, a Spanish-built sloop bound across the
Atlantic. Skipper Chet Hewitt kindly agreed to meet me at Malaga, on the
southern Spanish coast, affording me time for a quick trip to Paris.
When they did arrive on November 2, my shipmates' only favorable comment about
the cruise was that they had had a fabulous farewell party. We packed
ourselves into the sleek forty foot racer. Her twenty-six foot waterline and
nine foot three inch beam did not encompass ideal transatlantic accommodations
for five. My bulging seabag caused more trouble than my folding English
bicycle, which found a vacant corner under the dinghy atop the cabin.
Captain Chet also navigated. His wife Jane did a fine job of cooking after we
finally got the stove working properly. Hall Farnsworth and I represented
California in the crew, and Bob Elliot of Marblehead, Massachusetts, made a
pier head leap at Palma, to go at least as far as the Canaries with us.
Fifteen reliable Swedish Albina horsepower pushed us out of the harbor at an
early hour, so what we could get into Gibraltar's harbor in daylight. We got
there all right, but only because the moderate gale that developed came from
astern. By noon, the lively Adara, under number two jib, was surfboarding down
steep seas that became more perpendicular as they funneled into the narrow
straits. At the helm, I was uneasy while Adara and I became acquainted. Chet
shared our restlessness after I let a couple of big ones break aboard.
There was no calm in Gibraltar's lee as squalls screamed down from its rugged
bastions. Fortunately, we had wired ahead and were expected. The port doctor
could not possibly have followed the usual procedure of boarding outside in
that weather, so we were soon secured alongside a warehouse in the inner
harbor. The location should have been sheltered, but solid chunks of wind
seemed to buffet us from every direction. At the harbor office, Chet was told
that they were recording gusts up to force ten.
The following ten days are best forgotten. We had abominable weather, a potent
one-day flu that flattened most of us, and the usual delays and
disappointments of last-minute provisioning. Some yacht stores and equipment
were available from the Admiralty, but at high prices. Canned foods from the
stores along the narrow main street were quite reasonable, so every cubic foot
of locker space was crammed with cans. Their labels were removed and they were
marked with nail polish in a code that only I (the originator) appreciated.
Extra fuel and water were stowed, and four six-gallon cans were lashed on deck
at the shrouds. Finally, Chet announced that we were well stocked for forty
days at sea. The boot top had long since disappeared below the oily harbor
chop.
John Goodwin's twenty-five foot Speedwell was in the harbor and I enjoyed
getting to know him better, comparing notes on stores, twin staysail rigs and
trade wind routes. A finer small boat or a more able single-hander would be
hard to find. We were to meet again in Barbados.
Two other craft were also preparing for a crossing, one a forty foot French
ketch whose carefree crew found themselves bailing for their lives every time
it got rough. Hall christened them "the leaky boys". We never did hear whether
they made it. The other yacht was the able-looking fifty foot ketch Dawn Star
whose Canadian skipper was looking for a crew for the long voyage to British
Columbia.
Perhaps the high point of most cruises is successful arrival at the
destination. Not so with us. It was agreed that the best thing we ever did was
to leave Gibraltar, even if we did so in terrible weather. While motoring just
outside the breakwater, the reverse gear acted up, leaving us at the mercy of
shrieking gusts that often held Adara's rail under water as we worked to get a
bit of sail on her. The decision was quickly made to continue downwind to the
shelter of Tangier under the number two jib. In a flash, we accelerated to six
knots, finding conditions in the strait much the same as they were on the day
we arrived.
Our overloaded craft was mildly pooped by one roaring comber and another broke
aboard to carry away a canvas dodger on the port quarter. Large merchant
vessels passing close aboard were momentarily out of sight, then towered above
us with scuppers gushing salty waterfalls. The people on their bridges must
have thought us crazy as we skittered along below them. As I sat wrapped
around the base of the mast, I wondered if I were too foolish to be worried.
Warps were readied for trailing aft, and the number three jib was bent on to
our other double headstay (a handy thing, to have two). The preparations soon
proved unnecessary as we had, by then, passed through the strait's narrowest
section and were able to edge over into a slight lee afforded by Africa's
rocky headlands.
The wind had moderated by the time we entered Tangier Bay with the help of the
double-reefed main. Chet and Hall were able to make a simple adjustment to the
reverse gear that gave us power just in time to bring up alongside a sleek
grey contrabrandista in the inner harbor. Our average had been six knots for
the thirty mile passage.
Frayed nerves were relaxed in a sidewalk cafe high in the most modern part of
town, while a twelve year old Spanish smuggler hired from the neighboring boat
kept watch aboard Adara. Chet had made him a faithful friend with the present
of a harmonica. Later, with some of the crew of the leaky French ketch, we
enjoyed a real Arabian meal in a dark recess of the mysterious Casbah.
One day sufficed for last minute preparations before we headed out into the
strangely calm Atlantic. Two hour watches for the four men aboard, with one
man on call and Jane devoting her energies to the galley, proved to be a good
system. Gliding along under main and genoa, we eagerly estimated our time of
arrival at Santa Cruz de Tenerife, 700 miles to the south in the Canary
Islands. Guesses ranged up to nine days, quite conservative judging from the
pilot charts and books which indicated a preponderance of favorable winds. The
brief mention of squalls and unsettled conditions along the African coast was
ignored, for a while.
First came a persistent calm that bedeviled us into using the motor for many
hours. A wish for wind was granted, but it quickly became too much. No matter
how the wind varied in the week that followed, it always came from ahead. The
smallest jib was more than we wanted, so one night was spent under bare poles.
Then came some stiff squalls that encouraged experiments with the new storm
trysail. Dampness found its way below everywhere, but Bob in the quarter berth
soaked up much more than his share of it.
Fortunately, our experiences around Gibraltar had given us unlimited faith in
Adara's ability. At the start of the voyage, Hall bad been the most cautious
about carrying too much sail, but Bob soon took over in that department and we
eagerly awaited his latest dire prediction to give us all a much-needed laugh.
December 1955 temperatures were low enough to encourage the wearing of several
sweaters under foul weather gear while on watch but, when the helmsman needed
quick assistance to reduce sail, those below got into the habit of reporting
on deck in a pair of shorts, thus saving valuable time and precious dry
clothes. Several seams were ripped in the double-reefed main before we could
muzzle it in one particularly vicious squall. After that, we were just as
happy to rely on the storm trysail for a while. Seasickness bothered me
occasionally, but the rest of the crew seemed immune.
Tacking shoreward one night, we picked up a lighthouse south of Casablanca to
check Chet's dead reckoning. Despite having few opportunities for sights, we
were right on the mark. He had lost none of the skill he learned while guiding
a B-17 around Europe more than a dozen years before. Offshore again, we met
several groups of efficient-looking steam trawlers from Vigo making easy
weather of it as they proceeded in formation despite the big swells.
After a week at sea, my four shipmates got a profound shock, all of them being
devoted or addicted to tobacco. The cigarette supply had not been figured on
when our forty days' supplies were put aboard. An austere ration was imposed
as my brave companions grimly concentrated on every puff and, with belated
foresight, started to hoard butts. It was bad. As a non-smoker, I dared not go
into my usual slave-to-tobacco routine. The cabin atmosphere contained an
explosive mixture of oxygen and agony that never could have withstood such a
spark.
Eleven days after taking our departure, we had clawed our way 350 miles, just
halfway to the Canaries, a disappointing record for our fine craft. The big
question was whether we would make it by Christmas. Bob's mother and sister
were in the Canaries and we had shared with them our optimism about a quick
trip, trade winds and all that stuff. Their peace of mind became an additional
concern.
Then came the break. A dark squall at dawn left the helmsman no time to check
the course until it had whistled away. It was then gleefully noted that we had
found a favorable wind which, by noon, steadied from the north, with the lumpy
sea gradually falling into ranks astern under a clearing sky. We reveled in
the joys of drying clothes, an unscrambled meal, an accurate noon sight.
Much fun was provided on my afternoon watch when we decided to "see what she'd
do". Double-reefed main and number tow jib were all she could stand up to on a
broad reach. Our accurate log registered fourteen miles for two hours, while
those of us on deck were lost in admiration of her wonderful performance. It
was quite another story in the forward cabin, where Jane's berth kept falling
out from under her. Two hours of that was enough, she announced emphatically.
The first day's run of over 100 miles encouraged speculation about arrival
time and plans for the first day ashore. Ideal conditions continued, providing
a chance to try our double staysail rig. Chet had had two spinnaker poles
made, and these were used to boom out any two of our three jibs, each hanked
to one of the double headstays. The sheets were not led to the tiller for
self-steering, as it was thought we could make better time with a man at the
helm. The difference in size between the two jibs was unimportant because our
course was seldom directly downwind. A forty degree variation from a downwind
course was possible without backing the sails, making the boat easier to steer
than under main and jib, and doing away with all chafe.
Tenerife's northermost light was picked up exactly on schedule the evening of
December 22, 1955, our thirteenth day at sea. Dawn found us under the lee of
the jagged west coast. The rising sun crept down the sawtooth green mountains,
and was soon highlighting the white buildings of Santa Cruz de Tenerife. We
were surprised by the size of the city and the many tall buildings clustered
around the bustling harbor.
An exposed yacht club anchorage was passed up in favor of the slightly more
protected south end of the harbor, were we were invited to tie up alongside
the forty foot American ketch Pingla. Her young California co-captains, Ricky
Paschal and Milt Blair, had recently arrived after a rough cold trip down from
Sweden. Jane and I soon found ourselves relaxing in the cabin as Chet, Bob and
Hall scattered in all directions, seeking relatives, mail, cigarettes, cold
drinks and fresh food.
Milt and Ricky hospitably suggested that we stay alongside to share the
services of their night watchman, so we arranged things as best we could to
minimize the effects of the chop and swell that continually beset us. I
discovered that a bucket suspended three feet below the surface and boomed out
by the spinnaker pole was most effective in dampening motion.
A busy two weeks followed. Palms, trades, sun, showers, mountain and friendly
folk ashore distracted us. Work consisted of installing a really practical
stove for deep water use (two Primus burners on gimbals), a new spreader, a
repaired winch, improved electric wiring and several small improvements
suggested by the trials of the trip from Gibraltar.
With Joan and Connie Elliot, we found some fine restaurants in the town. Milt
and Rick's sea stories amused us, and it was arranged that Bob would make the
crossing to Barbados with them, spreading the talent more equitably. John
Prisch, another West Coast sailor, materialized to make number five aboard
Pingla.
The two forty footers were both painted white, and both spattered with much
dirty harbor oil. But there the similarity ended. Pingla must have had close
to five feet more beam than Adara, giving her a great deal of room below in
her Scandinavian double-ended hull.
We managed to capture the Christmas spirit with the Elliot family, and noted
several United States-style Christmas trees around town. The most unusual
Spanish holiday custom was the presentation of gifts to traffic policemen who
collected their presents as they worked. On Christmas eve, the narrow streets
echoed with the harmony of wandering singers and guitarists.
Proudly, the local people tell tourists that, off their harbor, a great
English fleet was defeated and its commander, Nelson, lost an eye. Another
high point in island history was Franco's launching of the Spanish revolution
there.
Many schooners and sloops come and go with vital inter-island cargo. The most
important products are bananas and tomatoes, large quantities of which daily
go to Europe aboard ships flying many different flags. The whole atmosphere
reminds one of the Hawaiian Islands with a European, instead of an American,
influence.
Shortly before leaving, I enjoyed a one-day bus trip over the central ridge of
the island to Puerto de la Cruz, an international winter resort on the
windward side. This charming seaside town was dominated by the island's snow-
capped peak, and surrounded by banana plantations with many terraces.
We decided to set off across the Atlantic, agreeing we would never be more
ready. On departure day, I discovered what I had missed in Palma, Mallorca, as
all of our friends arrived early for a farewell party which delayed us only
five hours. The low spot in an otherwise high time was the fact that the ocean
damp had temporarily ruined Chet's guitar.
A southerly start from the Canaries usually pays off for transatlantic sailors
because the northeast trades become stronger and more reliable in the vicinity
of the Cape Verde Islands. With our easily-driven craft, we expected that a
more direct course to Barbados would give us a quicker passage. But no vessel
could have made a quick passage in the weather we met for the first ten days.
Conditions were better than those we had south of Tangier, but light
variables, head winds, calms and squalls combined to plague us, allowing an
average day's run of only seventy miles.
For the first week, I was bothered by dysentery, so we discussed putting into
the Cape Verde Islands. We gave the trades three days to appear, while Chet
treated me with a miracle drug from our extensive medical kit which produced a
quick cure.
Suddenly, the fickle wind steadied after veering to the northeast, filling the
double staysails which were not touched, except for minor adjustments, until
we rounded up into Carlisle Bay, Barbados, nineteen days later. Watches of
three hours on and six off left the three men plenty of free time. Jane had
volunteered for two two-hour tricks at the helm, to vary the routine and get
more experience. With stoves that worked as advertised, she was able to
surprise herself most of all with fine meals, plus our favorite snack, fudge.
Supplies of potatoes, onions and oranges lasted very well, but we did miss the
few other fresh foods when they were gone. All canned meat tasted alike,
except for kidneys, which, consequently, became one of our favorites. For long
voyages, the fishermen of the Canaries used small loaves of bread that are
evidently baked until they are perfectly dry and toasty. I had bought about
twenty-two pounds of this inexpensive stuff which served ideally for snacks,
but such a large amount was troublesome to stow, and far more than we needed.
Fishing with spoons and pieces of white cloth tastefully decorating our hooks
proved to be useless. We did not catch a thing and, occasionally, were faced
with the long task of unwinding the formidable tangle resulting from the
fishing line's nearness to the rapidly whirling log line. Hall was a lover of
raw fresh meat, and did not go completely without, thanks to the cooperation
of the flying fish who, almost nightly, ended their careers flopping on
Adara's deck. One of these tasty fish thumped me in the chest as I dreamily
pondered the Milky Way, one glorious night. Perhaps they are one of the
terrible dangers to small boat ocean navigators, to which some of my more
settled friends keep referring.
The good supply of reading material was made use of by all. Some of Hall's
free time was occupied with professional-quality wood carving. Chet
concentrated on fancy rope work, I on letter writing, and Jane had many little
tasks to keep her busy. A fine Eddystone radio receiver was occasionally used
in the evening, to see what was happening beyond our not unpleasantly-limited
horizon.
The brightwork was being badly eaten by sun and salt, but rolling along in the
trades at six knots was not conducive to fancy scraping, sanding and
varnishing. How we did roll! Adara's combination of narrow beam with heavy
deep ballast had been fine when punching to windward, but was not ideal for
downwind work.
Day after day, Chet recorded runs of 140 miles which pleased us all. Still, we
were shamed by nature's gigantic race to the west, in which the fluffy clouds
overhead were the undoubted winners. Sun and stars seemed to tie for third
place, closely following the moon in second place. Below Adara's bow, speedy
porpoises occasionally frolicked in waves that marched steadily to certain
destruction on the approaching shores of the new world. Those were pleasant
days. The sun grew even warmer as we slipped under fifteen degrees north
latitude, making baths on deck more popular.
A glance in the mirror, one day, startled me. The stubble on my chin had
finally passed that awkward age, having sprouted at a shocking rate. Chet and
Hall, on the other hand, preferred the inconvenience of shaving to the
inconvenience of a beard.
We all watched the charts, speculating on when we would see Barbados. The
trades continued at their best, helping us to make accurate predictions. There
was enthusiasm about getting to shore again, but with none of the earnestness
that we had felt about making our landfall in the Canaries. It had been a fine
crossing.
Hall sighted our destination, low and hazy in the glare of the late afternoon
sun. I was oddly indifferent, not going on deck for a look until the landmarks
were plainly visible, presided over by a lighthouse flashing its cheerful
greeting. A pronounced glow in the sky was, at first, taken for the reflection
of Bridgetown on the far side of the island, but we were later told that it
was caused by burning gases resulting from oil exploration.
After many days of inactivity due to fouled up wiring, the engine was finally
started, to bring us into the shelter of Carlisle Bay, where pungent tropic
smells seasoned the air and two large freighters noisily discharged into
lighters. Exploring beyond them, we slowly entered the narrow careenage, which
was choked with island sailing vessels. The sounds, sights and even smells of
civilization were welcomed.
Melodious island accents from the dark shore advised us to anchor near the
Aquatic Club until formalities could be observed in the morning. A police
launch showed us to the correct anchorage, and we were told that the
authorities would be out at dawn. We were chagrined to hear that Pingla, which
we had left in the Canaries, had arrived before us. Suddenly finding ourselves
very tired, we gladly tumbled into strangely motionless bunks.
White-uniformed officials were up with the sun, and attended to us quickly,
permitting us to move nearer to the Aquatic Club pier, into the company of
Pingla, Speedwell, Dragonera, Skaffie, Erato and Sunrise, all ocean vessels.
Our old shipmate Bob Elliot was the first aboard, touching off a round of
visits, sea stories and iced refreshment that brought to a close another part
of the voyage that was slowly taking me home again.
- "Water Wandering the Caribbean"
Richard C. Newick
"The Rudder", January 1957, p.41
(Retyped by Emmanuel ROCHE.)
Visions of long-distance cruising are tempered by life's economic and social
realities, which anchor most of us fairly close to home. Perhaps the most
fortunate enthusiasts live along routes followed by the wandering few who
bring dreams to life, and life to dreams. Ian Gale, editor of The Advocate in
Bridgetown, Barbados, is in a position to meet those who have followed the
trades from the old world. A few hours after Adara's hook was down in Carlisle
Bay, I found myself with a group of sailors gathered in his friendly office,
comparing notes about routes, gear, weather and future plans. Ian and his
hospitable wife Alice entertained many of us in their home or with a drive
around the lush island, sharing the stories and knowledge they have acquired
from the many sailors who had preceded us.
A row around the Carlisle Bay anchorage provided a fascinating study of craft
that had crossed at least one ocean on their cruises. There were many
differences, but each one had her particular charm. The smallest transatlantic
boat in the anchorage was the Skaffie, just twenty feet long, carrying 150
square feet of sail to drive her stout double-ended hull. Gordon Auchterlonie
and David Beard, her young owners, were emigrating from Lowestoft, England, to
New Zealand. Between Spain and Madeira, they were almost swamped when a big
wave filled Skaffie's open cockpit, broke her mast and carried away much gear.
After refitting at Funchal, they continued across with better luck. We later
heard with regret that they had sold the boat in Panama after further
misfortune.
Then, there was the Speedwell, a beautiful teak creation, built in Hong-Kong
to the popular Virtue design of Laurent Giles. Only twenty-five feet long, she
packed much seagoing comfort in her slippery hull. John Goodwin of South
Africa, single-handed, knew how to get the most out of the boat as his twenty-
six day passage from the Canaries indicated. I was pleased to renew our
acquaintance, which started in Spain and Gibraltar.
Erato was a thirty foot old-time English fisherman-type sloop which Evan
Atkinson and his wife Toni had sailed from England. Toni had a baby shortly
after arriving in the new world and Evan was planning the voyage home to
Vancouver, with the family going ahead by air. Again, news received later
brought word of misfortune. The boat was sold in Central America, and Evan
completed the voyage aboard a freighter. Many people start long voyages in
small boats, and some of them go far, but few go the distance originally
intended.
The ketch Sunrise had already made one circumnavigation under the Swedish flag
with the appropriate name of Viking. Her voyage won Mr. and Mrs. Holmdahl the
Cruising Club of America's Blue Water Medal. Now, she flies the Austrian flag,
and Joe Pachernegg, who helped the Holmdahls convert her from a fishing
vessel, hopes to be the first German-speaking single-hander to make it around
the world. An excellent seaman, Joe has all the necessary talents to succeed.
Besides Adara with her crew of four, and Pingla with five aboard, there was
one more transatlantic boat, the Dragonera. Like Adara, she was built in
Palma, Mallorca, and bore a family resemblance to the trim little Speedwell,
both being from the drafting table of that talented Englishman, Laurent Giles.
George Hoag, her American owner, had searched long for his dream boat and the
ideal place to build her. She is a forty-three foot gaff-rigged sloop without
an engine. The original boat from the design, Dyarchy, proved fast and
practical, but I must admit that helping to hoist her heavy gaff just once
prejudiced me against that item.
Barbados is one of the world's most densely populated areas, and the rolling
island covered with sugar cane provides much of interest for the visitor. I
was most intrigued by the narrow careenage jammed with sailing vessels loading
and discharging all kinds of island cargo. Few have motors and many are built,
rigged and sailed much as were small trading vessels of fifty or a hundred
years ago. Truly, the Caribbean is one of the last strongholds of commercial
sail. And no wonder, with the reliable trades providing a beam wind for the
majority of the routes between the Leeward Islands.
Another unusual local sailing boat is the type used to catch flying fish.
These half-decked keel boats average about twenty feet in length, carry a
large low spread of canvas, and have about a ton of shifting inside scrap iron
ballast. Despite the skill of their crews, one or two boats are lost every
year, usually by capsizing to windward when the wind lets up momentarily. On
the windward side of the island, losses are a bit higher because the boats are
kept on the beach and launched through the surf.
The Adara was to be in Barbados for a time, and I was anxious to see some of
the other islands before returning to the United States. But, first, I spent
several fun-filled days aboard Speedwell anchored near coral reefs while John
introduced me to the art of skin diving and spear fishing, which opened up a
new and beautiful world for me, below the surface.
I found passage on the ninety foot schooner Arcadius headed for St. Kitts by
way of St. Lucia and Dominica with general cargo. Elias Mitchell, her owner
and captain, signed me on and we had aboard one other passenger, a woman from
St. Lucia. I was amazed to learn from the skipper that the vessel was less
than two years old. Her rigging and deck appeared to be worn by many years of
hard work and neglect. They were, but on other boats. The skipper had only
enough money for the new hull and, for the rest, he bought used material,
often very much used, to be replaced as the vessel could earn herself more
reliable gear.
Sail was quickly made after the tug cast off, and we were soon doing an honest
eight knots on a broad reach, with the four lowers and a fisherman staysail
set. The biggest difference from the sailing I had done was the creaking,
groaning and screeching of blocks and gooseneck jaws as the heavy gear ground
against itself. It might have been a giant orchestra tuning up. Orders were
given quietly by Captain Mitchell, and carried out in a leisurely way by his
St. Lucian crew. Among themselves, they talked an odd dialect that must have
come from the French. To me, they spoke the lilting English of the islands,
with many big words and accents in the most unexpected places.
I had my choice of the cabin or a soft spot on deck for the night, and was
content to spread my sleeping bag on the very stern. The captain and woman
passenger each had one of the cabins on deck, near the wheel. Little more than
low seven foot lockers, they are ideal tropical quarters, well ventilated and
especially handy for the skipper who is right next to the wheel.
Shortly before midnight, I awoke with a bang, a very loud bang followed by
much confusion. The main topmast shroud lanyard had parted, allowing the
topmast to snap loudly and leaving quite a tangle aloft. It soon came down
with another bang, somehow missing everyone clustered around the base of the
mast, but I was not surprised, having marveled at the durability of the
straining old manila lanyard a few hours before.
Tacking into Castries harbor awoke me a few hours later. Gleaming breakers
could be seen and heard on either hand, and the wind had died. For the next
two hours, we practiced all the tricks of the trade to get the Arcadius into
her home anchorage. The boat was put overboard, to help swing the vessel's
head around while tacking in the narrow entrance and, by taking full advantage
of every zephyr, the deed was done.
Dawn revealed a lush mountainous island, a fine sheltered harbor and the
unimposing town of Castries, which still bears the scars of a bad fire of a
few years ago. While exploring, I met Joe Pachernegg aboard Sunrise in a snug
little arm of the bay being developed as a yacht center. I decided to go on
with him when it was discovered that another motorless schooner had drifted
down on the Arcadius, breaking her fifty foot main boom. There was no
replacement spar available, so I paid my fare, said goodbye to the friendly
crew and moved my gear aboard the Sunrise. Joe and I were both anxious to get
up to the Virgin Islands.
Before leaving Castries, we met Rudy Thompson and Erik Winter, who were
operating the fine Block Island ketch Tropic Bird with a party aboard. This
able flush-deck forty footer reinforced my long admiration for the Block
Island type. The harbor was also graced with the double-ended schooner
Carrina, chartering out of English Harbor, Antigua.
En route to Martinique, we called overnight at the village of Gros Islet which
is seldom visited by outsiders, judging by the warm welcome we received. Many
St. Lucia fishermen go offshore in narrow dugouts which have one board added
to increase the freeboard. Sharp and deep straight stems permit fair
performance to windward under a rig of one or two spritsails made of flour
sacks. With the usual skillful crewman hiking out to windward on a line to the
masthead, these craft would give a modern racing boat good competition.
Martinique, just a few hours sail to the northward, has similar boats but,
upon our arrival there, we were surprised to find many of them using outboard
motors, instead of sails. On our way to Fort-de-France, we passed close aboard
and dipped our colors to historic H.M.S. Diamond Rock, which the English Navy
had, at one time, made into a steep-sided unsinkable battleship.
We congratulated ourselves upon anchoring off Fort-de-France at 4:45 p.m., in
time to avoid the usual overtime charges for clearance after business hours.
The official did not arrive aboard for over an hour. His English was as poor
as our French, which was confusing since the formalities were complete, down
to such odd questions as: "How many coffins have you aboard?" The climax was
the presentation of a bill for two dollars, which we flatly refused to pay. We
arrived at a compromise by charging two dollars for the 100 yard trip to the
quay, since he was left aboard without a boat.
Fort-de-France held little of interest for us, except for a reunion with two
Frenchmen named Claude aboard the thirty foot catamaran Tohu-Bohu. I first met
them at Camaret, then at Vigo and Lisbon. They reported a lazy crossing, made
even easier by a new self-steering rig for downwind work, which they had
developed with two small staysails set on the mizzen, and sheeted to the
tiller. Two likable young Canary Islanders had joined them for the crossing.
On the trip up the leeward coast to the ghost town of St. Pierre, we
experienced a Caribbean rarity -- a flat calm. Quite likely, it was a local
thing influenced by towering Mount Pelee behind its cloud veil. The volcano's
1902 eruption wiped out St. Pierre completely but, now, a few houses and
gardens are scattered over the site, twenty feet above the level of the old
streets. A new town is attempting a comeback, slightly to the south. Workers
were busy excavating the large church which was full of worshippers when the
disaster struck, and we were shown many relics while enjoying an unusual drink
in a hospitable home nearby. It was hard to get used to the idea of mixing
lemon soda with beer, but this typically French combination is tasty on a hot
day.
Sunset found us drifting out from the lee of Mount Pelee to pick up the force
five trades and take our departure for the Virgin Islands, 240 miles to the
northwest. Staysail and single-reefed main pushed us along smartly on a close
reach as we settled into the routine of four hour watches at night and six
hours during the day. This was my first experience with six-hour watches, and
I found that I preferred four on and four off. Joe, however, was used to
sailing alone, and found the arrangement quite a luxury.
During a quick two-day passage, I was often amused by Amiga, a small white dog
that was given to Joe in the Canary Islands. Whenever a wave sounded ominous
up to windward, she would quickly duck below one of the cockpit seats until
her good sailor's sense told her the deck was safe again. The Sunrise had been
converted from a fishing boat by adding a concrete and iron keel which was not
overly heavy. With a length of thirty-two feet and beam of thirteen feet, she
had a most comfortable motion at sea, but was not a spectacular windward
performer. Rugged simplicity was the keynote which made long solo passages
enjoyable, as well as safe, for a competent sailor like Joe.
From long habit and necessity, he did the work aboard quickly and with as
little effort as possible, which meant that, quite often, I felt like a
passenger until we got used to each other and I learned the boat's routine.
The same situation had arisen when I lived aboard the Speedwell with John
Goodwin for a few days in Barbados.
At dawn of February 1, 1956, I relieved Joe at the helm as we coasted outside
the reef along the southern shore of St. Croix. It was the first American soil
I had seen in twenty months, a pleasant island with moderately high mountains
sloping into bright green fields of sugar cane presided over by round stone
towers, the remains of windmills on old Danish plantations.
While anchored near Frederiksted in the lee of the island, cooking freshly-
caught barracuda, we were visited by Jim Hurd, the hospitable operator of
Sprat Hall Hotel. He and several friendly guests soon persuaded us to stay in
St. Croix where, for the next six weeks, we enjoyed a successful venture into
the day-charter business. We took a few short trips to St. Thomas, a busy
tourist center, and the more isolated British Virgin Islands, but most of the
time was spent near the west end of St. Croix with a boat load of fugitives
from the frozen north.
Each of the islands has its distinct character. St. Thomas, the extrovert
type, enjoys more attention than her quiet friendly big sister, St. Croix. St.
John, the smallest of the three American islands, is an awakening beauty.
Their British relatives are poorer but hardworking. After experiencing so much
hospitality in foreign ports, I was gratified to see Joe and the Sunrise so
warmly received by Americans.
Just before Joe, Amiga and the Sunrise headed for Panama, I flew to Antigua to
meet Tom Follett, owner of the twenty-three foot sloop Native Dancer. Saying
goodbye to friends in St. Croix made me realize how much I had come to like
the island, and I resolved to return, someday, to settle there.
English Harbour holds much of historical interest, besides having a pretty and
protected anchorage. It will, likely, be developed much more during the next
few years. Commodore Nicholson has built up a good charter business there, and
we enjoyed getting to know him, as well as John and Bonnie Stanilund of the
Carrina, and Ian and Terry Spencer aboard Freelance, all from England.
While in Barbados, I first heard of Tom Follett and his English Spartan class
sloop, which he sailed alone to Morocco and, with a friend, to Antigua. I was
pleased with the opportunity to sail to Florida with Tom and his friend Bob
Wright. The fast little boat was quite different from anything I had been to
sea in before.
One of English Harbour's drawbacks is the distance from stores and other
outfitting conveniences but, as Tom had only two weeks' vacation, we were soon
sailing into the sunset, headed for St. Thomas. Native Dancer was amazingly
fast for her size, but her typical English proportions gave her a quick
motion. The three of us were quite comfortable as we ran down the trades past
St. Barts, Saba and other interesting islands we would have liked to visit.
From St. Thomas, our course was to the west of the shallows, reefs and
fabulous cruising grounds of the Bahamas. They would have to wait for another
cruise. Day after day, we logged over 100 miles but our estimated time of
arrival in Nassau proved to be too optimistic when a persistent calm, off the
island of San Salvador, held us in its grip for two days and nights. The only
redeeming feature was that we became acquainted with marine life which,
otherwise, would have gone undetected under the waves. The dolphins were the
most fun. They would do almost anything but take a hook so, in desperation,
Bob tried a makeshift spear which did not do the trick either.
Tom's favorite activity was to drift around his little boat aboard an air
mattress, admiring her perfectly-reflected lines from every angle. A five foot
shark put a stop to this pastime until a powerful jab with the boat hook sent
him away. We were sorry that none of the fishing gear was suitable for sharks
but, no doubt, we were better off without having to share the cockpit with
such an unpleasant-looking fellow.
Finally, the wind returned, to give us a delightful spinnaker run through the
Northeast Providence Channel to Nassau, another busy tourist center. There,
Tom made close connection with the evening plane that just got him home in
time for work the next morning.
Bob and I followed in two days, after seeing a little of Nassau and having a
visit with Harry Etheridge, talented author of The Yachtsman's Guide to the
Bahamas. We also saw another English sloop, the well-known Felicity Ann,
which had carried Ann Davison from England to New York.
We made a good passage from Nassau to West Palm Beach, by way of the Northwest
Channel light, and across Great Bahama Bank, north of Great Isaac light.
Having only a foot or two of clear water under the keel was a bit scary at
first. A thunderstorm at midnight tossed us in the Gulf Stream. Never before
have I experienced such a strong odor of ozone, indicating a super-abundance
of electrical activity. Despite Bob's dire predictions, we were not
electrocuted and, by noon the following day, were seated in a Palm Beach
waterfront restaurant while I celebrated my homecoming with several large
orders of apple pie a la mode.
Seven different craft had been my home for the past twenty-two months. Ten
thousand miles had passed under their keels. New friendships and ideas could
not be numbered, much less evaluated in ordinary terms. Occasional storms,
calms and cross-words would be remembered only with smiles. The voyage, which
touched at a hundred and one ports in eleven countries, had cost much less
than two thousand dollars, in addition to what some might call hard work and
inconvenience but, to me, it usually was fun and always worth the effort.
(The following report reached THE RUDDER after the above article was written.
-- ED.)
"I have received word from Joe Pachernegg that the Sunrise was lost on the
rocks in the Galapagos Islands while he was in a poor anchorage, trying to get
a few hours of sleep after beating for two days against light wind and strong
currents to make a port of entry. Joe and Amiga walked four days overland,
living on goat's blood, until they came to a settlement. Later, he returned
and salvaged much gear and rigging. He hopes to build another hull, which he
can do if anyone can."
EOF