In 1968 a young London solicitor qualified on a most unlikely passage from the

Shetland Islands to Plymouth, a distance said to be 1002 miles. He was Peter

Carter-Ruck, of whom we shall hear a lot more. Within a year he was on the

Committee and a year later he proposed that the Club should hold a rally in

Gibraltar. Fortuitously, Jim Griffin, the energetic Port Officer for the Bahamas,

had migrated back east when his lecturing contract in Nassau expired in 1969.

He was then appointed Director of the Hellenic Offshore Sailing School, but

after two years accepted a job on the technical staff of the Gibraltar Dockyard.

It did not take Jim long to offer his services as Port Officer, just in time to take

on the organisation of the Club’s first distant rally. Since the year 1971 coincided

with the biennial Middle Sea race out of Malta, and a number of British boats

would be entering, Buster de Guingand used his influence in the RORC to

persuade them to organise a UK to Gibraltar race as a feeder for both the Malta

race and the Club rally.

Five boats raced out – Peter Carter-Ruck in the RORC’s club boat Griffin III

with the Club Secretary as navigator, John Foot in Water Music III, the well-

known French yachtsman Eric Tabarly in Pen Duick III, Sea Wraith III and

Casino. Eric won by a margin of two days over second boat Griffin, completing

the course in five days, half the time estimated by the RORC. The Admiral,

now accompanied by Mary attending her first Club function, met the competitors

in Gibraltar together with three other Club boats staging through. Almost all

competing crews were elected to the OCC at a special meeting on board Jim’s

boat, Northern Light, bringing in 22 new members. These of course included

the Secretary, Howard Fowler, and surprisingly, since the French are not great

club people, Eric Tabarly. Gibraltar town provided several prizes and the Club

presented Casino, the smallest boat in the race, with an antique silver pepper

mill in the form of a ship’s bell. Hum and Mary gave a ladies’prize, which went

to Christine Porter who had sailed there in Zest with member John Rock.

It is interesting to note that the subsequent passage to Malta was the cause of

some controversy as the distance was not quite the 1000 miles required to

qualify. Some boats decided to make a race of it, so the Committee adjusted the

course to take it over the magic limit, but this was not within the Rules. In a

clear case of gerrymandering the Committee created a theoretical voyage of

‘Med Passage, Gibraltar OCC Rally, 1002 miles’ and two new members came

in under this umbrella. However, in the same minutes it was pleasing to note

that an application for a passage in a 71ft boat did not attract the same laxity

and was rejected.

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John Rock’s Zest was a standard Bowman 36, a well-built yacht but not to

John’s satisfaction. They sailed on to the Caribbean and, while in Barbados, he

mused on the problem of finding the ideal deep-sea yacht, eventually concluding

that the only way was to design his own. There were many boats around the

Caribbean which had crossed an ocean so, with partner Chris, he set about a

survey. Over the next 12 months they amassed a wealth of detail from

experienced sailors in the way that Yachting World had done on two occasions

without ever taking their findings as far as the drawing board. John writes:

‘This survey only served to confirm my own

thoughts that what was required was a heavy

displacement boat, about 33–36ft overall with

a good beam and, if possible, a flush deck.

Although of glassfibre, she must be made to

look like a wooden boat and have some

character. A teak deckhouse and teak laid

deck were a must. The problem was, how small

a boat could be designed with a flush deck

and yet still look right? After measuring the

freeboard of every boat we could lay our tape

on during the next twelve months, it was

decided it could be achieved with 33 feet.

Sketches were made – hundreds of them! Then

one day I saw her in my mind, put her on

paper and there was the Tradewind. The hull

was to be made of glassfibre, using the foam

sandwich method. As work progressed and more

people heard about the design, we had a

steady stream of visitors. Then it happened

one of them asked ‘Will you build one for

me?’ Interest snowballed and soon another

friend wanted one. It was evident that my

‘one off’ was a ‘one off’ no more. At this

point I decided go mad and use the foam

sandwich hull we were building for me as a

plug in order to produce a set of moulds.

This was done and before there was a completed

boat in the water, fifteen had been ordered,

and this without any advertising or

promotion.’

And so the famously sturdy Tradewind was born; conceived and built by an

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amateur, but a boat which beat the professionals at their own game. She was an

out and out deep-sea cruising boat and remains popular to this day. The 35 and

39 followed the 33, and today the 25, a pretty little gaff-cutter, can be seen

swanking around the Solent with a somewhat older John at the helm.

The early ’70s saw a number of changes at flag rank, starting with the long

overdue promotion of Buster de Guingand to Rear Commodore UK in 1971. He

had either been an elected or a co-opted member of the Committee since the

Club began, and had been tireless in furthering its aims despite not becoming a

member until 1958. The flag rotation seems to have got out of synchronisation

as the very next year the Vice Commodore, Freddy Morgan, retired and Buster

was promoted into his place.

From joining in 1968 Peter Carter-Ruck was on the Committee within a year,

and took Buster’s place as Rear Commodore UK in 1972. The very next year,

as the minutes so charmingly expressed it, he ‘lost a ball’ when appointed Vice

Commodore on the untimely demise of Buster. The Secretary was then

somewhat at a loss to describe the appointment of the Club’s first lady flag

officer, Bridget Livingston, as Rear Commodore. Unfortunately for Bridget it

was not to be for long as she lost in a run-off vote at the 1974 AGM to Jean

Jonas, who formed a hard racing partnership with her husband Harry.

Misfortune struck again when Jean died less than three months later. The post

of Rear Commodore was then left vacant until the 1975 AGM when Harry was

elected to replace her.

During this time of changes at the top the minutes record a suggestion from

Tom Flower, ex Rear Commodore Australia, that the OCC should copy the

American practice of allowing retired flag officers to fly a Rear Commodore’s

flag defaced with a letter R in the lower half. This was well received at home so

the question was put the US Rear Commodores who, surprisingly, were

remarkably ambivalent so it was quietly dropped.

David Lewis next reported in 1971, telling of his intention to sail singlehanded

to Antarctica. He added that he hoped to plant Club burgees on bits of ice

claiming them in the name of the OCC, ‘if not to amuse the penguins’. He had

modified Isbjorn with ice guards round the propeller, three watertight bulkheads

and a low profile wheelhouse, but unfortunately son Barry put her on a reef

and she was a write off. David then bought a heavily built, flush-decked 32ft

hard-chine steel sloop which he named Ice Bird. He fitted her with an observation

dome from which he could steer while entirely enclosed, which was just as

well as the conditions he encountered often did not allow even the shortest

excursion on deck. His first leg in 1972, 6000 miles from Australia to Anver.

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Island, took three months, during which he broached and lost the mast in force

11. David describes the conditions after the knockdown when the weather

worsened further:

‘The sea’s surface was white and driving, more like a mountain

blizzard than sea, and enormous hollow waves, that had increased

frighteningly since the night before, were breaking heavily in

thundering cascades.’

David wintered, if that isn’t a euphemism when speaking of conditions down

there, at Palmer Base, and in 1973 he continued his circumnavigation. Conditions

were even worse than on the first leg:

‘“Fear and dread. God help us”, I wrote, and put the log away.

The hurricane continued unabated. The anemometer needle came

hard up against the 80 knot stop more frequently than ever until

the wind broke the instrument around noon. The seas grew steadily

higher and broke even more furiously. I crouched over the

whipstaff, my eyes glued to the strip of vibrating sailcloth outside

the dome that was my wind direction indicator. We were running

downwind at an angle to the enormous, heavily breaking seas.

CRASH. My world was submerged in roaring chaos as a mighty

hand rolled Ice Bird over, not urgently, upside down.’

The mast had gone but David reached Cape Town under jury rig three weeks

later. Remarkably, the Club did not recognise this epic cruise until 1978 when

David was given the Award, but, mercifully, no gift of money. At last it had

been recognised that an award of a few pounds to someone who had made

such a titanic voyage, hailed worldwide, would be an insult. After such a long

gap between the action and the award, the minutes refer appropriately to

‘commemorating the incredible voyage’.

Malcolm Robson had told us in the 1970 Journal of the loss in the Atlantic of

his 40ft 1911 cutter, Banba IV. It is difficult to understand just what happened,

but from his sketchy explanation it appears that the mast shifted when about

900 miles out from Cape May. He was concerned that it wouldn’t stand up to

a blow so they put up distress flares to a passing ship and abandoned her. He

must have convinced his insurers of the validity of his reasoning as we next

heard from him in 1973 when he had bought the famous Illingworth boat,

Maid of Malham and had set off again, this time round the world. Apart from

shooting dead some robbers who boarded the yacht in Guyana they had a

largely trouble free passage until they were about halfway to Tahiti. Then the

heel fitting tore out of the keel allowing the Pacific to pour in. Again Malcolm

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gives little explanation and none of any attempted repairs. They were just two

aboard, but managed to pump her for several days until they saw a ship in this

most unlikely bit of ocean. Again they were taken off and abandoned her.

One of the problems of navigation in the 1950s and ’60s was time. While

Slocum claims to have navigated with a kitchen clock, one hand of which was

missing, most sailors prefer a more accurate timepiece. However, until the

advent of the accurate, crystal-controlled wristwatch, the alternative chronometer

was a considerable outlay begrudged by many shoestring cruising men. The

answer was to rate one’s clock and correct it frequently against a radio time

signal. But that required a long-range receiver and the sweat of finding the

appropriate station amidst the crackle and hiss that was always present. Malcolm

told us the answer in the 1972 journal:

‘But don’t despair. If you are a navigator of great and continued

experience, brave and fearless and an extrovert, I can offer you

two solutions. The first is to invest about £6 in a battery-powered

electric kitchen clock (plus l0p for the battery) and if it varies

more than 10 seconds a month, which is most unlikely, throw it

overboard and get another. The battery lasts a year. Alternatively

buy about six cheap Russian pocket watches at thirty bob a time,

hang them on six hooks, wind daily and take the average. If you

find yourself out more than a second/week, I will personally post

you six more free of charge.

Checking your chronometer kitchen clock, etc. at sea is by

comparison child’s play. It is done either by asking a passing ship

the time or by radio. As ships are always in the way when you

don’t want them and never when you do, you will have to depend

on GMT by Radio. Anyone who can read can do it with the aid of

Vol. V, Admiralty Radio Signals. And a radio set. And a cool head.

Suppose for example you are stooging about the eastern

Atlantic trying to locate, say, Rockall, where it is your intention to

find out if it is possible to develop it as a ‘Get Away from It’

package deal holiday place. You want to check your GMT having

set out a month previously from Boston, Mass. From BBC Radio

3 you can only get the Amadeus String Quartet. From Radio 4

the Archers seem to be on all day. Radio 2 not a sound, you are

too far from Daventry. Your nerves aren’t up to Radio 1. You

thumb through Vol. V and begin again. Ah, yes, Radio Tomsk on

364 Kcs but the sounds of a visit to a plastic caviar factory don’t

help much. Radio Tibet? Try 654 Kcs – is that really ‘Letter from

America?’ But this is ridiculous. Strasbourg on 1096 Kcs but (Vol.

V tells you) half strength on Tuesdays and Fridays. Rugby, deep

down among the bass notes at 16 Kcs, but changed, without notice,

on even months (perhaps) to 14,562, 14,589 or 14,982 Mcs. All

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right then – Montreal on 2145 Mcs but (says Vol. V) not between

the 7th to 15th of each month. Today it is, you think, the 8th.

Desperate now, what about the trebles? Washington on 5 Mcs

– only groans. 10, 15, 20, all whistles and bathwater running.

Even Auntie BBC thinks of you on the ‘metre bands’ if you have

the quarterly timetable aboard, if you can tune in to 6.467 Mcs

before the pips, if you can mentally make a wave-bounce

calculation and be sure that you are included in the transmission

for Queensland, Atlas Mountains and Upper Wimbledon, if it isn’t

Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, Saturdays only, Saturdays and

Sundays omitted or the first Friday after St Candlemas. Rome

and Venice I see don’t give time on any public holiday, and they

include in this major Saints’ Days so your chances are remote.

Even if you are dead lucky and as, in a super-fruit-machine,

every one of thirty-five variables are all working for you at the

same instant, and – lo, there it is – faint but clear. Bleep bleep –

bleep – blaap – bleep – booooooing – silence. Or perhaps, boing

– boing – boing – bam – bam – bam – silence. Or any one of 16

different time signals: BBC, American standard, International

standard, ONOGO, Japanese Rhythmic, Russian Roulette etc. I

have even heard a gentleman telling me in an earnest confidential

voice that he is “Say-ash-who and ven ze note changes eet vill

bee joost zero neuf quinze heurs JayEmmaTay”.

I give up. Why not let’s just point the boat towards the sun and

squint through the holes in the coconut shell? At least we shall

arrive back where it all started.’

One of only a handful of German members, Joergen Meyer had a lifetime

ambition to sail around the world but could not find the money or time until he

retired in 1971. He was 64 when he quietly left the Elbe unsponsored and

unsung, with no ambition other than to prove himself to himself. In 350 days,

with scant regard for the seasons, he circumnavigated singlehanded in his 34ft

sloop Paloma, with only three stops – Panama, Port Moresby and Cape Town.

Joergen used the second leg, of 8700 miles, as his qualifying passage and

wrote an account for Flying Fish gently and modestly saying, somewhat

surprisingly, that his lasting memory was the kindness and helpfulness of the

many sailors he met in foreign ports.

The following year Joergen was awarded the Benrus Citation, the rather obscure

aim of which is to honour those ‘who conquer time in the service of mankind’.

Fellow recipients were Alan Bean for 59 days in space, a mere bagatelle

compared with 350 days in a 34-footer, and Henry Kissinger, who visited 12

capitals during a 40,000 mile, whistle-stop diplomatic offensive. Joergen was

credited with ‘the quickest-ever circumnavigation of the earth’, but how this squares

with Robin Knox-Johnston’s 313 days, only three years earlier, is a mystery.

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Joergen left the Elbe only two years later with the intention of circumnavigating

non-stop. This time he had a transmitter, and was last heard from after six

months at sea when he gave a position in the Roaring Forties roughly on the

date line, but nothing further was heard.

At about this time the Club began to show its age in a regrettable way, in that

the list of obituaries of the early members continued to lengthen. In 1972 it was

the turn of Sir Francis Chichester to haul down his flag. Despite his triumph in

the first OSTAR he was never satisfied with either his performance or that of

his boats and continued to strive for more ambitious goals almost to the end.

Francis was a restless soul, who shunned the rules of competition made by

man and instead chose to pit himself against the forces of nature and human

frailty. Only a few weeks before his death he was again racing in the OSTAR,

but had to be taken off when he was too ill to continue. With his passing the

OCC lost one of its most illustrious members and the country a great adventurer.

At his funeral in Plymouth the service included that most fitting prayer of St

Augustine which starts:

‘Blessed are all thy saints, O God and King, who have travelled

over the tempestuous seas of this mortal life, and have made

Thy harbour of peace and felicity.’

The shadow of the ill-fated Golden Globe competition, which Francis had

unwittingly triggered, was to intervene yet again. OCC member Nigel Tetley

had made a very gallant showing in a most unsuitable boat until it broke up

when almost in a position to win the £5000 for the fastest circumnavigation. He

was made a consolation award of £1000 and wrote a successful book, the

proceeds of which went to building another trimaran in which he planned to

enter the next OSTAR. He moved aboard the new boat with his family and seemed

well over his setback, even accepting an invitation as speaker at the 1972 annual

dinner, but tragically took his own life only a few weeks before the event.

There is no doubt that Buster de Guingand was destined to become Commodore,

but shortly after being elected Vice he fell ill and died in 1973 without being able

to attend a Club meeting in his new rank. Throughout the 19 years that he

served on the Committee he was also a committee member of the RORC and

served a term as Vice Commodore of that club. Buster was born of a sailing

family – his austere Victorian father was reputed to shave and put on a wing

collar and tie before going on watch. He qualified for the OCC in 1956 but was

foremost a racing man and was a popular and regular navigator in major races

both sides of the Atlantic. He navigated on Carina or Figaro when they came

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over for the Admiral’s Cup and Fastnet races, taking his own cook aboard – he

insisted that only a native could cook local food properly. One of several obituaries

described him as ‘a clever, kind and droll man, who was always cool and in

good heart under the most trying circumstances at sea’.

At the start of one Fastnet they grounded heavily on Hampstead Ledge causing

the liferaft to inflate, but Buster restored the dismayed owner to his wits by a

long stare through his monocle, a device unknown to the Americans. He was

navigating for Dick Nye in Carina II in the very heavy weather 1957 Fastnet,

during which they were accompanied by the usual OCC American Fastnet trio

which included William Blunt White’s White Mist and Bill Snaith’s Figaro. During

the hard beat down Channel most of the fleet retired, and only 12 boats of the

41 which had crossed the starting line were to finish. Carrina was damaged

early in the race when she fell off a wave and broke several frames forward,

but they carried on and virtually pumped their way to cross the finish line first,

upon which Dick made his famous remark: “OK boys we’re over; let her sink”.

That same year of 1973 also saw the death of Bill Snaith who, it may be

remembered, waited until he had a couple of transatlantic races under his keel

before joining in 1962. Bill was principally a racing man, being a member of the

US Admiral’s Cup team throughout the 1960s and making several sorties across

‘the pond’ in his lovely yawl Figaro when visiting the Solent in Fastnet years.

Of his crossings in 1961 and ’63 he wrote his only book, Across the Western

Ocean, which is full of gems that so well describe the pleasures of both the

racing and the cruising man. On night sailing Bill waxes lyrical:

‘At times, the ink-black of night is relieved by the light of the

stars. Then the spars and sails swing in measured arcs against a

dark field picked out by diamond points, and the swing of the

masthead and spreaders ticks off the bright giants: Betelgeuse,

Vega, and Arcturus; or the even brighter planets: Venus, Saturn,

Jupiter. When the moon rises, the spars and sails stand out starkly

against the dark sky, or are silhouetted by the gleaming carpet

runner laid down on the sea.

But the rarest pleasure of all is that, in this lonely immensity,

you are not alone. Though the dark magnitude isolates you in

your own sensations, you are conscious of your shipmates. They,

too, are enveloped in their own mythos. Few words are spoken

during night watches in order not to disturb those sleeping, but

each man knows his job and you silently expect him to do it

when the time comes. But, sitting in the darkness, you see them

picked out in a variety of man-created light.

Through the night, these varied hues of darkness melt, one

into the other, until with the paling of the eastern sky and the first

edging of the horizon, it is time to call the navigator to take his

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morning stars. And, as he brings the first star down to the horizon

in the sextant, you jot the time at his crisp call “Mark” which not

only fixes your place on earth, but seems to put an end to the

night and herald the coming of day.’

That navigator was a youthful Mike Richey, and whether he was responsible is

not told, but as they whistled for a wind some scholar wrote in the log:

Whene the winde dothe notte bloweWhene the winde dothe notte bloweWhene the winde dothe notte bloweWhene the winde dothe notte bloweWhene the winde dothe notte blowe

We dothe notte goe.We dothe notte goe.We dothe notte goe.We dothe notte goe.We dothe notte goe.

The following year the Club lost another old faithful – not in the sailing sense,

as Mostyn Williams had been confined to a wheelchair for 50 years after

contracting polio in his youth, but as a stalwart who did much to get the Club

onto its feet in the early days. Nevertheless, he qualified for the RORC and

raced offshore on several ocean races. He was also a member of the Royal

Lymington YC and the Lower Pennington SC and was made a Life Member of

all three. He was press-ganged by Hum to become the unpaid Secretary almost

before the OCC had begun and served tirelessly for three years before emigrating

to Kenya. An inadvertent compliment was later paid to him when the minutes

recorded the search for another invalid to take his place! Mostyn never qualified

for the OCC but was made an Honorary Member on retirement.