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