A NIGHT IN THE RAZ

Eve Bonham Cozens

(Eve and Michael are both vastly experienced sailors who have cruised and raced all over the world in a variety of yachts.)

Cape Horn to Port. These were words at the top of an invitation I received recently, asking us to a party to celebrate a 50th birthday combined with 25 years since rounding Cape Horn in a Swan 65 during a Round the World Race. I went, and so did eight others of the twelve-person crew, one of whom was Sam who had celebrated his 25th birthday on that momentous day a quarter of a century earlier. It was a genial and gentle evening and, interestingly enough, none of us really mentioned the race or rounding the Horn at all. I think this was healthy, as it shows we have all moved on and are now concerned with our children, careers and current activities.

However, I did have conversations with a couple of people which followed the fairly predictable lines when people meet up again after a number of years - the type of entertaining and often illuminating discussions which are prompted by such general questions as: 'What was the most frightening incident in your life?' 'Have you ever felt completely at one with nature or had a sense of the sublime?' 'What was the most exciting or fulfilling moment in your life?' It was surprising how often the answers to these big questions (when addressed to someone who sails or travels) involve an incident at sea or in a boat.

This prompted me to reflect on these questions as they related to my own experiences. The retrospective view is often best examined after some time has passed - I suppose it's all about evaluating experiences, and sometimes this can be done more accurately when the pain or the pleasure resulting from the event has subsided. The most exciting and fulfilling incident in my life prior to my meeting Michael might well have been rounding Cape Horn under sail or crossing the finishing line in the Whitbread race. I'm fairly clear that giving birth to our children was the most enthralling and momentous occasion in my entire life (not very original - many women would say this).

The better story would be my most frightening experience, and here I find it hard to choose between an incident in the Chenal du Four on a sailing vessel in 1988 and a nasty experience back in 1971 while I was travelling alone in Sumatra when I got stoned in a small town called Bukkitinggi (in those days the centre of a matriarchal but Moslem tribe). I emphasise that I do not mean 'stoned' in the 'high on drugs' sense - I mean it in the biblical sense, 'a crowd of people throwing stones at me', for what reason I did not wait to discover. I escaped by running, though I was very badly bruised and battered. I used to sprint for my university and was quite swift, and when I thought that my life was at stake I ran very fast indeed. However, I had only myself to consider and no-one else depending on me to make the right decision.

I think I was probably more frightened in 1988 because, although I was with Michael, we also had on board our daughter aged two-and-a-half and our seven month old son, plus a young woman called Jo who was not a sailor. We had been cruising in northern Spain aboard our 40ft cutter Gemervescence of London (known to the family as Little Gem) and were sailing north in late August en route to England. We were waiting in the Anse de Ste Evette, near Audierne in Brittany, to catch the tide through the Raz du Sein and Chenal du Four, when we heard from a nearby French boat that a southerly force 9 was expected in 6-12 hours. We had the choice to remain where we were, in a shallow bay open to the south with poor holding, and perhaps get caught like a rat in a trap, or else to make a run for it (when the tide changed) and hope to get through to Camaret (open to the north) before the storm broke. We decided on the latter, but had to wait another nail-biting three hours before we could leave the anchorage, slipping through the Raz at slack tide at around 2300.

The gale moved faster than anticipated and caught us as we were crossing the Baie de Douarnenez, and within an hour we were in a howling maelstrom in total darkness. I had the easier task - I was on the helm, and once we had shortened sail down to three reefs in the main and a tiny storm jib, all I had to do was helm as I was bidden by Michael, who had the unenviable task of deciding what to do and where to go. We were running fast before the wind, and decisions had to be made quickly. The most frightening thing was that we were in such restricted waters - a gale in open sea holds no such terrors. There was no question of attempting the Chenal du Four - visibility was nil because of darkness, driving rain, and spume off the waves. Remember this was 15 years ago so there was no GPS, and neither did we have radar.

The wind speed was probably more than 50 knots, but I was working hard trying to helm a straight compass course to aid Michael's calculations. Little Gem has a tiller, and though I am very strong it was tiring work. Michael was very busy at the chart table below and adjusting sails on deck. I had to trust Michael and he had to trust me - we kept to our respective tasks - we are a good team. With wind and current it would have been so easy to get it wrong, and it was sobering to realise that those precious people below depended on our getting it right. I was afraid, but fear concentrates the mind and I stuck to my helming with grim determination.

Michael decided that we would go into Brest, as there would be no turning south in the Goulet de Brest for Camaret, and hopefully we would pick up the buoyage when we went in. There was no question of closing the land to go through the Chenal de Toulinguet. We would go round La Parquette lighthouse and avoid the shoals and rocks a mile or two to the east of it. The dead reckoning was not easy, and Michael had to decide when to turn east-northeast and hope that we had left La Parquette to starboard or close on port. The gap between the lighthouse (which we never saw) and the cliffs on the shore to the north is only 3·5 miles wide. The night was very black and very wet. The shrieking of the wind and the slooshing noise on the hull as we raced along was very unnerving - and I had a curious, illogical feeling that there was a massive cliff dead ahead which I could not see.

At length Michael told me to turn onto 070°, and then the boat stopped lunging from side to side and started heeling over and shipping lots of water, so he dropped all sail and we were still shooting along at 6 knots under bare poles. As we headed into the narrows at the entrance to the Rade de Brest we finally picked up a light on the mid-channel shoals of the Plateau des Fillettes. Because of the leeway and windage on the hull we were heading about 090° and just making 070°. We had decided to keep to the starboard/windward side going in, but it was truly horrifying to discover that we were barely clawing our way off the shoals. A nasty moment, that.

We finally passed the danger and then the Pointe de Portzic Lighthouse on port, and at length skittered alongside the harbour mole to enter the main harbour. Yachts do not normally come in here, but we had no intention of fighting our way up the shallows to the marina beyond. It was still blowing 45 knots when we approached the quay. Although we had been sailing for only a few hours, we were exhausted and with some difficulty we tied up alongside a pilot vessel. My arms were twitching with fatigue and my heart was thudding with relief that we had come safely through. After half an hour the pilot told us that he had to go out on a call, and so we moved wearily to tie up to a supply vessel for the Ile de Sein, who were very kind and helpful. Then we were able to crash out - it was nearly dawn. We told Jo, who had been lying awake and frightened in her bunk during most of the stormy night, to keep an eye on the children when they woke (our children always slept well, blissfully unaware of any bad weather or danger). It was sobering to think that their lives had depended on our making the right decisions, and how easy it could have been to miscalculate. As Michael said the next day, we made it 'By guess and by God'.

In retrospect we should probably have made for the open sea, to ride out the bad weather there, but we really thought we would have time to get to Camaret and be safe there before it hit. We have had, in common with all sailors, many worrying and frightening experiences whilst sailing in far flung places, but this incident, so close to home, could well have been our nemesis.

(1602 words)