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V THE CLUB MATURES PDF Print E-mail
Written by Tony Vasey   
Friday, 21 March 2008

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

 

92

093-GipsyMothIII.jpg

 

Gipsy Moth rounding the Horn

 

93

 

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

97

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

 

98

 

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

 

100

 101-MikeRichey&Jester.jpg

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

101

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

105

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

 

106

 

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

 

107

 

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,

108

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

109

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

110

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,

111

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

 

112

 

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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114-HumandMary.jpg

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.

 

114

 

Last Updated ( Tuesday, 25 March 2008 )
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