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The tenth anniversary found the Club on a firm footing, but there were still
some loose ends to be tidied up before it could be said to be running on oiled
wheels. While the Vice Commodore appeared to be enjoying his stint as acting
Secretary, and it must be said that there was no apparent loss of efficiency,
there was a clear need for a more permanent arrangement. Also, the much
vaunted Port Officer scheme was beginning to stumble as, apart from one or
two enthusiasts, little was heard from them. Finally, it was a great disappointment
to the Committee that the Award seemed to be attracting very little interest.
The Secretary issue was soon resolved most satisfactorily. In response to an
advertisement in 1965, a certain Howard Fowler, a retired Merchant Navy
Officer but non-member, applied. He accepted the now salaried appointment at
the handsome remuneration of £250 per annum – but he was not to get away
lightly with this extravagance, as he was expected to take on the role of treasurer
as well as secretarial duties. Howard went on to fill both posts for the next
eleven years and became the lynchpin of stability within the Club. It is interesting
to note that, despite not being qualified as a member, he was ‘instructed’ by the
Committee to wear the club tie and fly its burgee.
The Club succeeded in holding the original subscription at the hardly more
than nominal £1or $3 until 1966, but could not meet the cost of the paid Secretary
so in that year they were doubled. There was a surprisingly low fall-off in
membership, and most of those that left were defaulters so were not missed –
financially. In those days of low inflation it is amazing how steady were prices
and how low was the cost of service. Early dinners were often no more than a
few shillings and the cost of borrowing premises was usually nil or negligible.
It is interesting to note that, when prices rose substantially in the 1970s, a
reduced price for functions was offered to ‘student members’, the first and
only time that such a category was mentioned. The Committee was always
meticulous in ensuring that social functions were financially self-supporting
and were usually able to report a profit of a few pounds. However they were
remarkably generous in recognising non-members who helped the Club. In
1964 a sum of £25 had been voted to buy a present for the Vice Commodore’s
secretary, who had done extra work in the interregnum before Howard Fowler
took over. If extrapolated on the basis of today’s subscriptions, that would
represent £1000.
In retrospect the Port Officer problem was more apparent than real. Those
few that did report showed that they were fulfilling a useful role. As mentioned
earlier, the South Seas representative overloaded his washing machine through
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the frequent demands of passing members and, according to Ian Nicolson, the
Clyde was a hive of Club activity. Nevertheless the Committee agonised long
over whether to continue the scheme. It was eventually decided to give it a
greater plug in the Journal, and in 1966 a full list was published showing 22
officers covering eight countries or areas, together with an admonition to
members to make use of them. The scheme slowly gathered way with a steady
increase in PO reports which advertised their presence, encouraging members
to use them so that it gradually became self-perpetuating. From then until very
recently the back page of the Journal carried an ever-expanding list that was a
ready reference for itinerant members who needed help or just a gam.
Despite much encouragement through the columns of the Newsletter/Journal,
in 12 years there had only been four awards under the Prize scheme. As already
described, two of these had been to the ever-enthusiastic Ian Nicolson, but
there was a note of desperation to get the scheme going when one reward was
insultingly reduced as not being quite up to scratch. The third, also previously
mentioned, was made to Steven Bradfield, and the fourth, in 1966, went to
Michael Shaw. This recognised his ingenious idea of having similar mast fittings
for the main boom and spinnaker pole so that the former could be transferred
forward for trade wind running, thus obviating the need for a second running
pole in a small boat. The Committee felt that this was of little merit but worthy
of recognition, so awarded Michael five guineas.
The main problem was that the concept of the Award was badly thought
through from the outset. While the wording in the Rules allowed for written
accounts, the first four awards, and others that failed, were all for ideas or
inventions that helped ocean sailors. This was quite understandable in the early
days, when to have a sheet winch was considered the height of modernity, but
as boat gear improved and became more commercially available the scope for
amateur inventions became ever more restricted.
The Club naturally wished to give some recognition to Francis Chichester
when he made his much-vaunted singlehanded one-stop circumnavigation in
1967, but the only accolade available was the Award, although his voyage hardly
fell within the definition of ‘writing, invention or idea’. Nevertheless, the Award
was made in the form of a cheque for 20 guineas plus an inscribed plaque,
‘provided the latter did not cost more that £3’. The Queen then upstaged the
Club by conferring a knighthood on Francis when he came ashore on the steps
of Greenwich. Not, it must be explained, direct from the voyage.
When the following year Alec Rose, a Club member since 1964, quietly
picked up his mooring having repeated Chichester’s feat, the Queen also
conferred a knighthood on him. Not to be outdone, the Club followed suit and
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Gipsy Moth rounding the Horn
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gave Alec the 1968 Award comprising a plaque and 30 Guineas. Clearly inflation
was taking its toll – or was it that the Club thought that the extra 10 guineas
made up for the lack of adulation received by Alec in comparison with the more
publicity-conscious Francis?
That same year an Award was made to Jim Griffin, Port Officer Bahamas,
who lived with his wife and four daughters aboard their lovely old 39 ton gaff
ketch Northern Light. Jim had made the first really meaningful contribution to
foreign pilotage notes with a lengthy guide to cruising in the Bahamas. Since his
boat drew 8ft 6in he had obviously learnt the hard way, hence the cryptic
heading to his article, Going Ashore in the Bahamas. Jim gave some timeless
advice that is still worth quoting:
‘White water is less than 6 feet deep: yellow
water 6–10 feet deep; very pale blue water is
10–12 feet deep and the mild green waters are
about 15–18 feet deep – after that the blue
shades down to a deep royal blue at 20
fathoms and a rich navy blue at the 100
fathom line. Coral heads are distinguishable
clearly as purple brown masses when seen 150
yards away from the crosstrees, but when
sailing in waters in which there are known to
be coral heads it is prudent to organise your
sailing to bring the sun fairly high up above
and behind you as you face forward on the
lookout.’
It is not clear if the Award was given for Jim’s writing or for an ‘idea’ to make
short-handed cruising easier, since as well as the guide to water depth, he explains
his use of lazyjacks to tame his main and gaff that together weighed more than a
quarter of a ton. He may not have invented lazyjacks, but they were not much in
evidence before then and largely disappeared with the advent of the lighter Bermudan
sail. However, with the later use of fully-battened sails the problem of taming a
heavy main again arose and the jacks were reinvented, very much in the form
explained by Jim. He was given a cheque for ten guineas.
Clearly the meaning of the Award was becoming blurred, so in 1969 a sub-
committee was appointed to review and clarify the ‘Regulations for the Prize
Fund’. The intention of the originators was clearly that this should be the premier
accolade to be awarded to the member ‘who had done most to further the
objects of the Club’. Indeed, when in 1966 a suggestion was again made that a
cup be presented for the most outstanding cruise of the year it was peremptorily
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dismissed as not being practicable to administrate, the sub-text clearly reflecting
Hum’s original intention that the OCC was not a competitive club. So, for the
first 26 years of the Club’s life, the Award, in one form or another, was the only
trophy. However, as other prizes were presented over the years it gradually
took on a wider role than the more specific honours.
The sub-committee added fuel to the existing confusion by creating what
appeared to be another trophy but, by calling it the Award of Merit, it could be
interpreted as separate from or ancillary to the Award. They were obviously
trying to justify the recognition made to the now Sir Francis and Sir Alec whose
feats, although most meritorious, fell well outside the definition of the existing
trophy. This new accolade was to be presented to ‘any person or persons who
shall have performed some outstanding voyage or achievement even though no
entry shall have been submitted’, very neatly encapsulating the achievements
of the aforementioned knights. Unlike the Award it has always been open to
non-members as well as members.
As if to confirm the wisdom of the sub-committee, Robin Knox-Johnston
(see page 86), hove over the horizon right on cue to fit into the new definition,
having made what was undoubtedly the greatest sailing feat of any member or
non-member by sailing singlehanded around the world without a stop.
Robin and his brother Chris both joined the OCC in 1967 after sailing their
little ketch Suhaili from Bombay to England via Capetown. Within weeks of
arriving Robin read that Chichester was round Cape Horn and on his way up
the Atlantic. If Francis got home as planned, the only sailing challenge left was
to go round non-stop, so Robin announced his intention of doing just that. This
was received with a degree of incredulity by the diehards who thought it
foolhardy, and by and large they were proved correct.
Three years earlier Eric Tabarly had startled everyone by winning the second
OSTAR convincingly even though it had started as very much a British race.
This was the beginning of French dominance in short-handed ocean racing,
and the French press made the most of it. Tabarly was awarded the Legion of
Honour and became a national hero, Paris Jour proclaiming: ‘Thanks to him it
is the French flag that triumphs in the longest and most spectacular race on that
ocean which the Anglo-Saxons consider as their special domain’. However,
this xenophobic note was largely confined to the press and was noticeably
absent among competitors, who regarded themselves more as fellow soldiers
than the enemy. Indeed, Blondie Hasler wrote after the race: ‘Eric has won in
the superlative time of 27 days. I am delighted because he is French and because
his boat was the first to have been designed especially for the race’.
The next OSTAR was scheduled for 1968 and Tabarly was known to be
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building an enormous (by the then standards) trimaran, ostensibly for that race.
Robin suspected the Frenchman had other ideas, so hastily started planning his
circumnavigation. Clearly Suhaili was not suitable, so he put her up for sale
and consulted the only man whose thinking was sufficiently radical not to be
put off by the proposition – Colin Mudie. Colin’s plans were certainly radical
but even so no yard offered to build at a price anywhere near Robin’s budget.
Fortunately no one had made an offer for the rather spartan Suhaili so he
started refitting her and planned to leave the following year.
News of Robin’s intentions had got abroad, and a number of unlikely candidates
came forward with half-baked plans to attempt the non-stop passage. However
the Club had a special interest, since it was regarded as the focal point of
knowledge on long distance sailing and three of the nine potential entrants were
members. At that point the Sunday Times newspaper got in on the act and
announced an award of the ‘Golden Globe’ to the first person to circumnavigate
non-stop singlehanded and, should there be more than one, £5000 to the fastest.
A committee was formed under Sir Francis Chichester, but when it became a
competition the Journal editor’s scepticism turned to bitterness. His very first
words in the next issue were:
The Way of the World
‘We have been overtaken by events. Since
Robin Knox-Johnston announced his intention
of attempting a non-stop circumnavigation the
idea has attracted the news sense of big
business. Scenting increased circulation and
kudos, it has turned the dream into a contest.
What bitter irony that the very motives that
inspire men to escape should be prostituted
and dangled before us as a lure! Dreamers we
may be but we are also realists. We know the
way of the world. The taste is bitter.’
What happened is history and hardly relevant to this story. Suffice to say that
of the nine starters Robin was the only one to finish. Tabarly didn’t enter, but
that other hero of the French press, Moitessier, did and he was a formidable
opponent known to be like his boat, built of boiler plate. In the event Moitessier
lost interest halfway round and carried on across the southern Atlantic instead
of turning north to the finish. The French press were dismayed, but announced
that as he was in the lead he could have won if he had wanted. In fact he was
20 days behind Robin when he passed the Horn.
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Being a member, Robin was eligible for either OCC award, but it is simply
recorded that he was presented with a suitably inscribed plaque. Since no money
was given it must be inferred that this was meant to be an Award of Merit.
Thus Robin joined the pantheon of solo circumnavigators recognised by the
Club, but it was to be some years and several sailing feats later before he too
was awarded a knighthood. Perhaps it was an indication of the rapid proliferation
of sailing feats that Robin wasn’t given more immediate recognition, although
his boat was primitive by comparison with either Chichester’s or Rose’s and
his non-stop passage was a far greater achievement. Indeed, Sir Francis
Chichester was one of the first to recognise Robin’s feat when he wrote, ‘Knox-
Johnston has scaled the Everest of the sea. He has earned himself undying
fame and a secure place in the annals of achievement. We are proud of him.’
The Editor had the last word and couldn’t resist a little schadenfreude:
IT HAD TO END IN TEARS
‘In the last issue we anticipated the
imminent return of the remaining round the
world singlehanders, but we were sadly
optimistic, as events soon proved,
culminating in the Crowhurst tragedy*.
Perhaps it was unfair to invite complete
strangers to lend themselves to such an
unequal struggle. After all, it takes a very
special kind of personality to be a genuine
solitary, and such a one is unlikely to come
forward in reply to an open invitation with
all its accompanying publicity. Only those
who have experienced what amounts to
voluntary solitary confinement with its
alternating apprehension and boredom will
appreciate the tensions and stresses that
build up over extended periods, with the
consequent failures, in boats as well as men.
But it is over now. Perhaps Mammon is
satisfied.’
On reflection the tragedy of the first singlehanded race was that it was so
haphazardly organised, or not organised, whatever your point of view. It grew
*He is thought to have cracked under the strain and jumped overboard
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empirically from a desire by one young man who wanted to improve on
Chichester’s feat the only way he knew how, into a dangerous junket, as the
OCC editor had foreshadowed. Lessons were not taken from the OSTAR,
which had been staged twice without loss. Boats in that race were then
scrutinised for safety, one had to have sailed a qualifying distance, and it was
sailed in relatively frequented waters where rescue was seldom far away. Once
the press took hold of the round-the-world competition and proposed valuable
prizes, it became a scramble.
The Commodore’s old Cornish lugger Lucent, now owned by Roger Jameson,
hardly knew herself when in 1964 the director of the Charles Darwin Foundation
in the Galapagos asked to charter her to take parties of scientists to the outlying
islands. Not only that, he then made a proposal that allowed Roger to, as he put
it, ‘fulfil what must be the dream of most members of the OCC – to take, as it
were, a clean sheet of paper, and, basing the designs on the small experience
that is his, design and build, at someone else’s expense, the Ideal Ocean Cruiser’.
Surprisingly, the Foundation had no boat of their own but had been offered
considerable funds to obtain one. Roger explains the nature of his commission:
‘The exact specification was left to me, to
be agreed with Mr. Peter Scott, the
naturalist, save only that the vessel should
provide efficient inter-island transport for
six scientists and should be as fast as
possible, should she ever have to chase away
poachers after the valuable fur-seals. I
think the Director envisaged a motor cruiser
with steadying sails, though I explained that
I would have to rig her temporarily to bring
her out from England. He was, I think,
understandably perplexed when I returned
thirteen months later, with a sort of sawn-
off, bald-headed Brigantine; though whether
it was his native reticence or the punch of
her two auxiliary Lister diesels that forbade
him to register anything but polite approval
of my year’s labour, I shall never discover.
It was all fixed up with almost indecent
haste, the whole contract being concluded
within 24 hours of our first meeting, and it
is to the enduring credit and faith of the
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Director that he entrusted the funds of his
organisation to the ruffian, bare foot and
clad only in a pair of blue jeans, rifle on
shoulder and bullets in belt, who wandered
into his house one tea-time in April, 1963.’
Roger’s good fortune didn’t end there. After marrying his crew in Tahiti, he
secured a 15 month assignment taking a Smithsonian Institute scientist to gather
shells in the Society Islands. This was the sort of exotic job that most folk
crave, but Roger confessed to getting tired of lying hove-to for hours off
uninhabited islands while the shell hunter foraged ashore. After putting him off
for good in Pago Pago Roger remarked wistfully, ‘the crew are down to three,
not including the cat, Asparagus Fred, the chicken, the cricket who sings like a
lark and the two lizards whose duty it is to keep down the cockroaches’.
In retrospect it is surprising that there were not more small boats lost at sea in
the early days. Or was it that communications were so sparse that few were
recorded? Be that as it may, the first reported loss of a Club boat was that of
Poppy Duck, owned and built by Bill Proctor. Bill had qualified in 1955 with
Tilman on the latter’s first foray into the deep south, and subsequently went on
the successful assault on the Crozet Islands. If that hadn’t put him off it would
certainly have inured him to almost any rigours. Bill was also of the minnow
brigade, having copied the lines of Sopranino and Trekka and built his own boat
to that well-proven 19ft 8in Giles design. He left singlehanded in 1963, but it
was not until the end of 1965 that his wife notified the Club that he had missed
his last schedule in Port Moresby.
The Flag Officer Australia was alerted and he used his contacts throughout
the area, but to no avail. Howard Fowler, the new Secretary and a navigation
instructor, used the good offices of the Sunday Express since the editor was
one of his pupils. They got things moving via their contacts, and it was through
them that the only possible clue was unearthed. Their man in Sydney wrote in
the idiotic style that one expects of journalese, ‘Proctor, a short-sighted former
Ministry of Works civil servant, vanished in July whilst sailing singlehanded
round the World’. John Boyden, whose brother Tony built the America’s Cup
challenger, Sovereign, was a close friend of Bill Proctor and gave sage advice
which the reporter quoted: ‘Judging by the thickness of his glasses, Proctor’s
eyesight was poor and of all the fates that might have befallen him that of
running ashore on a low-lying island seems the most probable’. It was later
reported that natives on Bodi Bodi had seen ‘a small craft being wrecked on a
reef and a white man disappear over the side’, but since they could not recall
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when they witnessed this event, and recent photographs showed Bill to be
burnt as dark as the natives, the report was not given much credence. No
positive traces of Bill or Poppy Duck were ever found.
A light aside to the tragedy was the way the Club Secretary’s conscience was
taxed. Howard unexpectedly received a cheque for £20 from the Sunday Express
for the story that they printed. He appealed to the Commodore for guidance as
to whether he was entitled to keep it and, if so, should he declare such largesse
on his tax return.
Around that time a name which appeared frequently in the Journal, and one
which gradually took greater prominence in the sailing fraternity generally, was
that of David Lewis. He had qualified on the first OSTAR in his 25ft Cardinal
Vertue, but shortly afterwards built the catamaran Rehu Moana, designed by
Colin Mudie. For a shakedown he took her to Iceland and back before entering
the second OSTAR. After the race he picked up his wife and two little girls in
New York, then continued west to make a three year circumnavigation, the
first ever in a multihull. Clearly communications had improved since Selkirk’s
day as David wrote from Juan Fernandez: ‘Fiona and the children are fine – the
kids speak as much Spanish as English and rather regrettably have a command
of fine old English nautical words that they hear from me’. Lewis was convinced
of the merits of a catamaran for ocean cruising saying that it was faster, roomier
and probably safer that a conventional yacht. He went on: ‘It is an indication of
our feelings that three months after reaching England we will be setting out for
Australia in this same Rehu Moana’.
They left as planned but in his new boat, Isbjorn, and in 1968 reached Australia
where he left the three girls and embarked his son Barry. Lewis had been
commissioned by the Canberra National Institute to continue his studies into
ancient Polynesian navigation, and the Club next heard from him in the Gilbert
and Ellice islands in April 1969. Thus between 1964 and 1969 he sailed to
Iceland and back, raced singlehanded across the Atlantic, made a three year
circumnavigation, sailed to Australia, and then sailed back to mid-Pacific where
he wrote:
‘Truk in the Carolines is unique in its own
right. It is one of a handful of islands that
have retained their oral navigation schools
where canoe captains learn by heart ‘all the
reefs and islands under the stars’, and the
bird zones and wave patterns for 1200 miles
east to west and 500 northward, so they have
the knowledge to range this whole sea area
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Mike Richey and Jester
without chart or instruments. The men voyage
for love of it. A recent excuse for a 180
mile beat over open ocean was to get the
right kind of cigarettes!
The canoes are 25–30 feet long and
massively built. Great squared cross-beams
support the outrigger float on one side and
the lee platform on the other. The dug-out
bottom of the hull is attached to the strakes
and end pieces by coir lashings and caulked
with breadfruit sap (the canoes are built of
breadfruit wood). The sheet and shrouds are
also of homemade coconut fibre rope. These
are 2 inches and 1½ inches diameter. In rough
open sea they average 4½ knots on a reach and
4 on the wind. They don’t sail very close and
are normally steered by the sheet. Remember
these are only 25ft sailing boats and that
they carry 7 or 8 men and stores and often
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cargo. Like most western Pacific craft, they
do not tack. Instead they rake the mast the
other way and swing the sail round, thus
changing ends. The outrigger stays to
windward.
Back aboard Isbjorn, shorn of charts and
instruments, with the navigator Hipour in
command, we retraced the old route to Saipan,
500 miles to the northward. Hipour cannot
read or understand charts (his own picture is
to us a more complicated one of islands
‘moving’ to new positions under the stars
relative to the canoe), his ‘sailing
directions’ had been handed down in great
detail over generations.’
Lewis encapsulated this research in his fascinating book We the Navigators,
and rarely failed to send the Club an account of his extraordinary wanderings
throughout his long membership.
Mike Richey’s name appeared frequently as a Committee member, but the first
we hear of him in the Journal was in 1966 when he sailed Jester singlehanded
to the Azores and back. He had missed the deadline to become a Founder as his
early sailing days were spent navigating in ocean races which rarely exceeded
1000 miles. After wartime naval service, Mike became the founding Executive
Secretary (later Director) of the (later Royal) Institute of Navigation with Mary
Blewitt as an assistant. At that time he normally navigated Foxhound in offshore
races while Mary often piloted her sistership Bloodhound. Over the years he
navigated for most of the great names on both sides of the Atlantic, racing with
the likes of Rod Stephens, Alan Bond, Bill Snaith, John Illingworth and many
others. However, when he acquired Jester in 1964 he started sailing alone.
Mike had bought Jester from Blondie Hasler after the second OSTAR in 1964.
She was basically a 25ft Folkboat, which Blondie had modified with an unstayed
junk rig and totally enclosed accommodation so that it was possible to sail the
boat without going on deck. Mike threw away the outboard engine and relied
for auxiliary power on an 11ft sweep. In the event he made a fairly brisk passage,
but his account tells us more about the obscure tricks of celestial navigation,
for which he soon became famous, than about the sailing. In his article there
were glimpses of the prose that we were later to enjoy, and his philosophical
reflection on his first long passage singlehanded whetted our appetite for what
was in store. Mike wrote:
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‘The ultimate problems in lone voyaging are,
of course, human rather than technical. The
fundamental one is perhaps how to create a
more or less civilised way of living apart
from the rest of humanity and the conventions
of a community; habit is neither strong
enough nor intellectually convincing. There
is a need, if one is not totally to waste the
experience, for a regulated existence, as a
safeguard against boredom and lethargy.
Solitude seems to heighten experience and the
reward of arriving at a workable framework
makes the whole experience infinitely
worthwhile. The passage then becomes a
microcosm of life itself. As Belloc says,
‘There, sailing the sea, we experience every
part of life: control, direction, effort,
fate; and there can we test ourselves and
know our state.’’
Another lone sailor from whom we heard quite often was George Fairley. George
was discharged from the Royal Navy because of his diabetes, and so bitter was
he that he determined to prove his fitness for seagoing duties by making an
Atlantic circuit singlehanded. He published this story in 1965 under the title
Wide Ocean: Small Boat, then set off round the world taking as crew the
secretary of the Diabetes Society. With no refrigeration for their insulin this had
to be a risky undertaking, with the tragic result that Jean, his crew, died in the
Pacific and George had to bury her at sea. Following this he beat back to
Panama, sold the boat and returned to England.
George then bought a 28ft Twister and in 1970 set off again, this time with
his new wife, Scilla. In Cartagena she fell ill but, not trusting the local medical
facilities, they pressed on to the San Blas islands. Still no help was available so
they sailed on to Colon, by which time Scilla was weak with constant vomiting.
There the port doctor was not interested unless she was contagious. Pregnancy
isn’t catching so they spent a quiet week at anchor before transiting the Canal
and pressing on across the Pacific. The third crew member arrived in Suva.
A loss at sea that was well documented was that of Odd Times. Peter Rose had
crossed the Atlantic in his little 23ft gaff cutter in 1966 and was returning in
1967 with a friend as crew when he fell ill. He got progressively weaker until
300 miles off Newfoundland they sought assistance. This arrived in the form
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of a Dutch salvage tug of vast proportions which took Peter aboard, where he
soon lost consciousness. They took Odd Times in tow and steamed as slowly
as they could, but even at idling revs the yacht broke up after a few hours.
Back in England Peter’s condition could not be satisfactorily diagnosed, so
he took the simple cure of marrying his French fiancée, Monique, and building
a new boat. The second Odd Times was a 37ft gaff cutter of very traditional
design. They set off again in 1968 and, after a winter in the Caribbean, took her
up the Hudson, through the Great Lakes to Chicago and on down the Mississippi
to the Gulf. Peter was a man of the cloth and once back home he secured a
living at Feock on the River Fal in Cornwall where he could see his boat on her
mooring from the pulpit. He remained a member until his death in 2001.
Bill Tilman continued his high latitude exploration but also continued to place
his climbing ambitions ahead of concerns for his boats. Having lost Mischief,
crushed in the ice off Jan Mayen Island in 1968, he bought a second Bristol
Channel Pilot Cutter, Sea Breeze, and returned to Greenland to pick up where
he had left off on a previous trip. The boom broke in mid-Atlantic, so plans to
try for Ellesmere Island were abandoned and instead he turned for Scoresby
Sound in East Greenland, a place that had defeated him on two previous voyages.
When close to their objective the engine failed, but they were offered a tow in
by a Norwegian whaler. Tilman refused and sailed on into the night in light airs
then, quite suddenly, it blew up violently putting him on a lee shore with ice all
about. He couldn’t claw off and was set onto a rocky islet. When she was
pounding hard the crew climbed ashore with just their sleeping bags and by
morning only a few feet of the mast was showing. In his tale of that voyage Bill
sounded somewhat disillusioned with Sea Breeze when he quoted Milton:
‘Fateful and perfidious bark,
Built in th’eclipse, and rigged with cursed
dark.’
Tilman then bought his third Pilot Cutter, Baroque, and set off for Greenland
the very next summer. Between 1973 and 1977 he made a further five expeditions
to northern high latitudes, using his boat to reach unclimbed mountains in the
way that softer sailors go to explore new tropical islands. Critics would say
that he carried his lifestyle too far, and perhaps he admits this obliquely when
he quotes RL Stevenson in his book In the Wake of Mischief:
‘In the joy of the actors lies the sense of
the action.
That is the explanation, that the excuse.’
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It seems that the challenge of ocean crossing in minute boats did not end with
the Founders, as several members continued to girdle the globe in Sopranino
look-alikes. Thlaloca, at 20ft 6in overall, was only slightly longer but big enough
for Canadians Hein and Sigge Zenker to qualify with a circumnavigation in
1966–7. On this voyage they didn’t cross the North Atlantic, an omission they
were determined to rectify. In 1968 they left Sheepshead YC heading east at the
very time that the Bermuda Race was postponed because of an early hurricane
moving up the Eastern Seaboard. They decided to continue, keeping a bolt hole
under their lee, and were rewarded with a sparkling ride up the Gulf Stream
with no more that about 50 knots on their stern. Halfway across the Atlantic
they spotted two sails coming up astern, then heard radio traffic which indicated
that these were the leaders in the transatlantic race. Suddenly a flurry of calls to
the guard ship from Ondine and Germania demanded to know how a boat half
their size was so far ahead. The Zenkers kept their silence.
By 1965 David Wallis was acknowledged to be the ‘official’Editor of the Journal
and his influence on the publication soon became clear. His appointment,
however, was worded in a most unfortunate way in the minutes. They announced
his promotion and congratulated him on his hard work to improve the publication,
then in the same breath suggested that it might be possible to obtain some
income from advertising to offset the Secretary’s salary!
The Editor must have felt under threat when Dudley Pope joined in 1966. Pope
was a well-known naval historian and at that time sailing correspondent to the
Evening News. He was also a keen ocean sailor and qualified when he sailed
Golden Dragon across the Atlantic. He seems to have gone soft in 1968 when
he bought Ramage, a 53ft ketch with three double cabins and all the trappings
for living aboard. Unfortunately, only two weeks after he bought her she was
dismasted, and Pope wrote, ‘As soon as I get time to breathe, I’ll write a piece
for the Journal on the question of losing masts in the Caribbean and the fact
that the OCC burgee colours run if immersed in salt water!’.
Encouraged personally by CS Forester, Pope, as the Daily Mirror book critic
put it in 1969, ‘took over the helm from Hornblower’ when he embarked on his
highly successful series of Ramage books. These traced the career of a Royal
Navy officer in Nelson’s navy but seem to have left little time for the OCC as
Dudley dropped out of the List of Members shortly thereafter. Perhaps that
wasn’t all bad as it would have been difficult to give credence to his writings in
the Journal while immersed in the unlikely adventures of Ramage.
The Newsletter/Journal slowly developed a standard format. From the outset
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there was a Commodore’s comment on his sailing activities, and by 1966 there
was a dedicated Editor’s column. There was always an update on the Admiral’s
wanderings. Indeed, he never missed an issue from the date of his elevation in
1960 to his death in 1980. The Secretary had a column which usually included
a desperate appeal for entries for the Award and news from members, both of
which were still slow in coming. Nevertheless, many contributors wrote how
they enjoyed the contact provided by the publication, which was, after all, its
main objective. Auseful innovation from 1967 was the printing of a pull-out section
listing new members, who continued to join at the rate of 40 to 50 each year.
While the layout and content took on a standard form, the title did not. The
subliminal word Journal continued on the front cover, then suddenly, in 1968,
the frontispiece announced in bold type Ocean Cruising Club Newsletter
1968/1, but this was to disappear in the very next issue which reverted to the
minute lettering inside and out. As well as the lettering, the colour of the cover
was rarely the same two issues running; varying from navy blue to sky blue. In
1970 the Editor suggested the name Flying Fish, which was readily accepted
by the Committee although one member, who shall remain nameless, preferred
The Red Herring. The new title was followed by ‘The Journal of the Ocean
Cruising Club’ which remained the same for the next twenty years*. Even the
colour settled down to a gentle pale blue.
The Journal varied in length between 30 and 80 pages, presumably dependent
on how much copy was available, but it was never short of interest. In almost
every issue some member or other was being congratulated on completing his
circumnavigation, and transatlantics were ten a penny. There was still a tendency
to print a litany of dull routine when short of articles, but there was also a lot of
fascinating stuff which showed how life generally and even small boats were
becoming more sophisticated. The Club also felt sufficiently confident to flex
its muscles on behalf of the impecunious when it challenged English Harbour,
Antigua on the question of mooring fees. In 1966 the Admiral wrote:
‘The Friends of English Harbour, who are
permitted by the Council to run this harbour,
are not friends to yachting folk. They have
just put up their charges, which now nearly
equal the most expensive U.S. marina, which
has water, electricity, telephone, ice and
every possible facility at each berth. Here
*After 1970 the terms Journal and Flying Fish become synonymous in this
History
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there is rarely water, no plug-in electricity
and no ice. The showers and heads are an
absolute disgrace and no one ever uses them.
There is in fact nothing here except the
little Nicholson shop and the Admirals Inn.
But what really infuriates us is that the
‘Friends’ now propose to charge every yacht
8/6d a day for anchoring anywhere in this
natural harbour. I have visited several
hundred harbours in the North Atlantic and at
every one anchorage is always free, a rare
exception being the Beaulieu River. Most of
the charter yachts are leaving here and
making St. George’s, Grenada, their base
where anchorage is free and there is an
excellent yard with every possible facility –
a lift, water, electricity, showers,
restaurant, ice, skilled labour – the lot.
That is where I shall probably spend next
Christmas. I have been paying $30 for a berth
alongside the dock for 12 months. I now have
to pay $34 a month!’
After a terse exchange of correspondence the Club received a very conciliatory
reply from the dockyard manager, who openly admitted that trade had been
badly hurt by the wide publicity:
‘Berthing fees have been virtually halved,
and will remain low until we have improved
matters sufficiently to warrant high fees.
The ‘anchorage’ fee about which there has
been very bitter comment was in fact a
misnomer, and should have been called a
Dockyard landing fee. All visitors to the
Dockyard are charged a sum of 50 cents at the
gate, which goes towards the upkeep of the
buildings, and the anchorage fee was
introduced as a similar charge for those
coming in from the sea. It was however, set
at the rather high level of $2.00 BWI per
day. This has now been changed to a landing
charge of 50 cents per day, or $2.00 per
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month. We feel sure that no one will object
to paying this small sum.’
Thirty love to the Club!
In 1968, in response to further urging by the Editor, Ronald Clark wrote from
Bolivia describing sailing at 12,500ft on Lake Titicaca. He was Commodore of
the Boliviano Yacht Club, but since the majority of their boats were of the
motor variety, and there was rarely any wind, he didn’t find the sailing very
challenging. The greatest interest in his yarn was the description of bringing the
1000 ton steamers up the mountain on mules, presumably piece by piece.
Readers may recall that when Victor Clark arrived back in Bequia in 1959 after
his eventful circumnavigation, he was solicited by a small boy who turned out
to be the son of John and Bonnie Staniland, both Founder members. He was
also the godson of Ann Davison, so had salt water in his veins. It is gratifying
to note that Ian did not rely on his questionable early passages, but joined in his
own right in 1969 after another Atlantic crossing in his parents’ new boat, the
46ft schooner Carrina. John remained a member throughout his life, and Bonnie
and Ian are still members.
Whilst the fare at the idiosyncratic Maison de France was doubtless splendid,
the price began to deter members so in 1964 annual dinners migrated to The
Little Ship Club and stayed there for the next four years. However, with the
finances never more than just solvent it is surprising how the Club felt able to
entertain so many guests. Even in the early days, with subscriptions still at only
£1, at one dinner the entrants in the recent OSTAR together with their wives,
the auditor and his wife, and a possible benefactor and his wife, were all invited
as Club guests. The minutes usually record a short-list of possible speakers of
considerable note, but regrettably there is rarely reference to who actually spoke.
In 1966 one of the Club’s four French members turned up for the annual
dinner and was obviously somewhat overwhelmed by what he found. He had
qualified in 1964, but the record shows only that he had sailed out of Cannes in
1962 and returned to Toulon in 1964, a distance claimed to be 15,000 miles.
Since the straight line distance is less than 100 miles he obviously went round
something somewhere but for the rest we are left to guess. However, he was
clearly overcome by the occasion and felt compelled to write to the Secretary:
‘Dear Sir,‘
I want to tell you that I so much enjoyed meeting you, Commodore Heywood,
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and all the members I encountered. The mood of this club is what I thought it was
most friendly When Commodore Heywood had the delicacy of talking about me, I balanced whether I should reply or not. I still wonder if I should have done; but, at that moment, I thought that many people had already made a speech, that my English was hesitating perhaps the patience of the members would not endure it . . . and also, that day had been so stressing for me (owing to passport trouble), that I was in poor condition.
If I had spoken, I should have said that, so odd it may be, I found out that, as a foreigner I was a member of the majority in O.C.C.! Do not look for another reason than the only possible explanation: the prestige of a British Club. I am proud, indeed, to wear the tie of a club of your country, whose pavilion is the most encountered in distant harbours Among other British Clubs, of course, I am glad have been admitted to O.C.C.: how to remain insensible to what happened during the dinner; my neighbour asked, as an ordinary question to her neighbour “Have you been to Australia?” and he answered, with the same simplicity: “Yes, I have”.
Owing to the quality of the members, the world...sounds like a private garden ...
As you know, frenchmen are not so “Club” as you are; so, we expense treasuries of imagination to demonstrate our usefulness As you see, I am afraid I should have talked too long if I had made a speech at the dinner
Faithfully yours,
OLIVIER STERN-VEYRIN’
Perhaps it is just as well that he didn’t speak as the principal guest and speaker
was Admiral Sir Deric Holland-Martin, GCB, DSO, DSC, who apparently made
an excellent speech and Olivier might have upstaged him with his command of
English.
It is not clear from the record what particular affinity the Rear Commodore
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USA East, Jack Parkinson, had with the monarchy, or whether he erroneously
regarded the OCC as an extension of the British Empire, but he reported in
1966 that the local branch of the Club again dined at the New York Yacht Club
and again he reported having toasted the Queen. A nice touch, since in those
august premises they were constantly reminded of American yachting supremacy
by the enduring presence of the ‘Auld Mug’.
The 1968 dinner was to be the first with Brian Stewart in the Commodore’s
chair after Tim Heywood had carried that flag for two full terms. Brian (see
photograph page 140) had qualified in 1952 during the transatlantic race aboard
Lutine, the Lloyds of London boat, but did not join the Club until 1958. However
he was soon on the Committee and, as we have seen, took a firm hold of the
finances in 1961, carrying that burden until Howard Fowler became the paid
Secretary/Treasurer in 1965. He was a keen offshore racing man, winning the
1962 RORC Class 1 championship with his 19 ton Zulu. He also used her for
sail training, competing in many of the Tall Ships races.
At the 1968 dinner, held on 31 March, Mrs Rose was a guest while Alec was
in the Southern Ocean on his way round singlehanded, emulating Francis
Chichester. In welcoming Mrs Rose the Commodore said that rumours that
Alec was overdue at the Horn did not worry her as she was sure he would
round it on April Fool’s Day. The very next day he was sighted at the Horn,
much to the delight of the Club and confusion of the rumour mongers. It is
often forgotten that Alec had set off at the same time as Francis the previous
year, but was run down at night in the Western Approaches by a vessel which
didn’t stop. Then, on returning to Plymouth for repairs, his Lively Lady was
further damaged by falling over in the yard, delaying him until the following
year.
It became the practice at that time to invite a notable member to attend the
annual dinner as Guest of Honour so that members could hear of their adventures.
At the 1969 dinner it was the turn of a rising Club star, Michael Richey, who
had bought Blondie Haslar’s Jester and who, in the 1968 OSTAR, had the
distinction of being last by such a margin that he had felt in danger of being
forcibly rescued. Mike was introduced as ‘the Club’s philosophical
singlehander’, and for the next 30 years we were to enjoy his yarns and regular
instructive column in Yachting Monthly.
However, the show was stolen at that dinner by Frederick Thurber, over
from the States and, at age 86, thought to be the Club’s oldest member. He
certainly held the record for the earliest qualifying voyage, with a passage from
New York to Havana in 1910. His real claim to fame, however, was that his
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next voyage was credited as ‘marking the beginning of deep water cruising in
small boats’ when, in 1911 with two companions, he sailed his 25ft yawl Sea
Bird from Rhode Island to Gibraltar via the Azores. This doesn’t quite square
with Hum’s record in his book Atlantic Adventurers where he shows several
transatlantic passages before this date. Nevertheless it was a stout effort when
one considers the primitive accommodation:
‘The cabin, which was to be our home for 40 days, measured 8
by 6 feet and had 4 foot 6 inches headroom. The transoms had
hard cork cushions; one transom was built out a foot so that one
could recline on it without having to lie under the side deck. As
the other was almost entirely under the deck with less than 12
inches between the deck and the cushion, one could turn over
only with difficulty!’
They were planning, rather optimistically, on an average of 100 miles per day in
order to reach Rome to attend a motorboat race, which allowed them only 40
days. Frederick’s yarn ends in Gibraltar three days before the event, which
they doubtless missed, but not before they had weathered some very heavy
gales which obliged them to spend considerable time hove-to or riding to an
improvised sea anchor, which he describes:
‘A sea anchor such as we used consisted of an ordinary 20lb
anchor and a piece of oak 4 feet long by 6 inches wide by 1½
inches thick. Through the centre a hole was cut large enough to
go over the stock of the anchor, and notches were placed at
either end for the flukes to fit into. The board was then firmly
lashed to the flukes. The weight of the anchor would sink the
board about 15 feet below the surface and the resistance caused
by the board dragging through the water held the Sea Bird’s bow
to the seas. We had out about 50 fathoms of cable, which kept
the anchor two seas ahead of us.’
Frederick died in 1972 in his 90th year, and remained a member to the end.
At the same time, the social life of the Club’s antipodean members was falling
into a routine, with annual dinners and events organised by Wally Burke, Rear
Commodore Australia. He adds in his report that as a member of the Cruising
Yacht Club of Australia he would welcome members at Rushcutters Bay, and
as an ex-Commodore of the Landfall Harbour Yacht Club those facilities were
equally available.
Despite the loss of the Club’s leverage through the departure of Harry Albrecht,
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lectures and parties were still held onboard the salubrious HQS Wellington.
However, committee meetings seem to have been held wherever a member had
a connection at the time, as they rarely met at the same venue twice running.
Throughout the 1960s they oscillated between the RNVR Club, the RORC, the
Little Ship Club, HQS Wellington and, latterly, with a Commodore who was
Chairman of the Sail Training Association, on one of their vessels if they should
happen to be in the London Docks. To ring the changes further they prevailed
upon the Port of London Authority to let them hold a meeting and party at their
headquarters in the autumn of 1970. The Committee never seem to have had to
pay for a meeting room wherever they met, so it appears that either they had
many influential contacts or that the Club still had sufficient prestige for other
clubs to be glad to offer them their facilities. However, by 1971 some clubs
began to levy a charge and it is noticeable that from then on the venue was
often the Cruising Association, with whom the Club had enjoyed a close
relationship since its inception, or at a member’s private residence.
Throughout the 1960s and early ’70s the Admiral continued his peregrinations
in the North Atlantic, but often found it difficult to get satisfactory crews. For
years he eschewed any form of self-steering, but while in the Mediterranean he
spotted a boat with what appeared to be a new type of gear. It turned out to be
the prototype of the now widely-known Aries. Hum ordered one, and soon
took delivery of the second to be built. Unfortunately he bent an actuating arm
shortly after it was fitted and a new one was delivered by none other than the
inventor and builder, Nick Franklin, who was then persuaded to crew Hum
across the Atlantic. For many years thereafter the advertisement for the Aries
had a photograph of Rose Rambler’s stern complete with the gear. Hum usually
sought the young to crew him and once managed to find, in his words, ‘two
charming young girls’. In praise of Aries he wrote to the Journal that he had
signed on a permanent crew member that could not hear or see what was going
on. The mind boggles!
He wintered in Malta in 1967–8 and caught up with old acquaintances, not
always with a happy outcome. He wrote:
‘Geoffrey, a retired Commander, RN, and I
were invited aboard a very nice English motor
yacht one evening for drinks by her charming
lady owner. She, the yacht, was moored stern-
on to the dock with a rather long narrow
gangway and was rolling slightly. Half way
across I regret to say I lost my balance and
the very light hand rail broke. The
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Commander, with the utmost promptitude and
courage, instantly plunged into the sea. But
I remained perched on the gangway. When in
due course he surfaced, looking rather like
an anxious walrus searching for its young, I
said, “What are you doing there, Geoff?” He
said, “I’m down here to rescue you. What are
you doing up there?” So I said, “I’ve stayed
up here to rescue you. Let me pull you out”.
A happy evening was had by all but that is
the second time that I have not fallen into
the water and I fear I may have blotted my
copybook.’
Hum usually called at Lymington on his way round, but occasionally took a
short cut straight to Gibraltar if there was no need, as he put it, ‘to go and
count the grandchildren’. He often wandered down the African coast before
going out to the islands, and one incident in Agadir shows that Britain still ruled
the waves, or thought it did. Hum explains: ‘an official came to take away our
passports. I refused and sailed at once. They must be told that if they want
Englishmen to visit their ports they should treat them with some courtesy’. He
was beginning to show his age, however, and became somewhat accident prone.
In a heavy blow off Finisterre he fell and broke two ribs. He was hospitalised in
Vigo with some other complaint, and managed to contract meningitis in Trinidad.
His eyesight was so bad that he couldn’t read the sight reduction tables but, as
he said, ‘the old boat knew her way across’. This led him to conclude his 1969
epistle:
‘If you should meet a white haired, half
blind old man with a walking stick tottering
down a quay it will be your aged Admiral, and
he may need a helping hand. The walking stick
has other uses: it is also an excellent
dinghy boat hook and is useful for catching
waitresses!’
Hum did make a catch but it wasn’t a waitress! Having groped his way to
Grenada at the end of 1969, he arranged to have a cataract operation in the local
hospital but not before his dim vision allowed him to recognise ‘a very charming
and experienced English sailorwoman, Miss Mary Danby, whom I had met
briefly in Malta two years previously. We were married in St George’s, Grenada
on January 15th 1970 and my right eye was operated on four days later’. What
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Hum and Mary aboard Rose Rambler
Hum later privately admitted was that he couldn’t really see who he was marrying
but was delighted when he found out.
With the Admiral settled down in the care of the young Mary, of ‘trim lines’
as described by one American correspondent, it was good to read how they
had sufficient company in Prickly Bay to enjoy an impromptu rally as opposed
to the more organised affair some 35 years later. Jock Hardwicke of Nanise
wrote that on entering the Bay he found the Admiral in Rose Rambler, Peter and
Monique Rose in Odd Times and the Stanilands in Carrina. Agood omen and an
indication of the proliferation of members across the world.
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