AZAB WITH AN AUDIO COMPASS

Jim Moore

(Jim received the Qualifier's Mug for the following passage.)

It all started in Falmouth, back in 1992. I was reporting to the Royal Cornwall Yacht Club for the start of `Blind Week', an annual event organised by RYA Seamanship Foundation (now Sailability) for sailors who have a visual impairment. I was assigned to the Sun Legende 41 The Legend of Isles and when I was introduced to its owner/skipper Malcolm Eyles, little did I know what was in store for me.

By the end of Blind Week a friendship was started and later that year Malcolm invited me to be his crew in the l993 Brixham to Santander two-handed yacht race. This was a great new experience for me as I had never before sailed short-handed and for the first time I would be totally reliant upon the audio compass. This device was developed by Autohelm to enable visually impaired people to helm a compass course independently. Its speaker delivers a high bleep when there is a need to go to starboard and a low bleep when there is a need to go to port. When on course it is silent of course, or so they say -- not the way I helm.

I will not dwell on this event other than to mention one very memorable occurrence some few miles after the start when we had a spinnaker broach. `How could you, Malcolm', I thought, `I haven't been trained for this'. I looked towards the shoreline, too far to swim, water and ropes seemed to be everywhere. I don't like spinnakers!

Having set the stage I will now proceed to the real drama of my sailing experience.

Azores and Back Race 1995

When Malcolm asked me to take part in the outward leg it immediately set up two conflicting streams of thought. I was flattered that he was prepared to take me along as his crew, and the privilege of being part of such a prestigious event as AZAB was compelling me to say `yes'. On the other hand, could I cope with the stresses and the elements that such an unknown quantity as AZAB might well impose upon me? At times I felt very inadequate.

I consulted mutual friends. Their answer was consistently loud and clear. Go for it. You'll be fine. If you don't you'll regret it for the rest of your life. But still the mental tug of war went on and on. It was all a bit silly really because I had already said `yes'. I was committed, and I could not let Malcolm down.

During our drive from London I became quite anxious and had there been a dignified way of withdrawing from the event I believe I would have done so! However, on arrival I was resolute. I would put the matter out of my mind until Saturday morning and enjoy the next few days. I think I did this quite successfully!

The next two days took care of Registration, Civic Reception, Race Briefing for Crews and, of course, lots of social contact amongst the competitors. It was very pleasant meeting up with Club members whom I had met on previous occasions, and to renew acquaintances with several competitors who had taken part in the Santander experience two years earlier.

It was quite an experience for me as I was meeting sailors I had only heard of before. I was very conscious of their vast knowledge and experience and of their experience in short-handed racing. Meeting them made me feel quite inadequate, yet this highlighted for me the privilege of being part of such an event.

Saturday arrived, last minute shopping, latest weather information, final checks etc. As I walked around the shops I can remember thinking to myself `will there be any bananas left in Falmouth?'

All morning my anxiety grew steadily and my mouth was very dry. Malcolm and I did not speak very much. "We'll cast off in one hour's time", he said. During that hour time seemed to stand still and my mouth became more and more dry. Drinking water seemed to have little effect.

We cast off. As I stowed the fenders and ropes I wondered `will I ever tie up again?'. On our way downriver we waved to other competitors and people we knew on competing yachts, and near Black Rock hoisted the mainsail and calibrated the audio compass to the yacht's compass. Malcolm and I still didn't speak very much.

In due course the engine throttle was moved to neutral position, the genoa unfurled and the engine stopped. With minutes to go we were impatiently waiting for time to pass, which was very frustrating. The cannon fired and we were off around the turning marks. The following minutes have to be amongst the most unpleasant I have ever known. We embarked on what seemed to be a frenzied series of tacks, my mouth was painfully dry and I felt physically and mentally strained. Suddenly we were clear and heading out to sea and other yachts were giving us space. I went below, drank lots of water and slowly recovered.

The hours passed and we were being carried along nicely by a strong breeze. By now I was well recovered and all the pre-race stress and anxiety had subsided. We quickly settled into our watch routines and once again life was most enjoyable. Day became night and night rolled onwards to another day.

With the passage of time the breeze grew less and less and the boat speed reduced to an unacceptable level. There was no alternative -- the spinnaker would have to go up. At first I was very wary of the spinnaker, but things quickly settled down and for a number of hours I helmed with a reasonable confidence and our boat speed returned to a satisfactory level. By early evening the wind had picked up and helming had become much more demanding, but things were still fine, my confidence had been growing all day. However, just before nightfall things took a turn for the worse and I suffered a serious bout of `spinnackeritus'.

The wind was further increasing but greater problems were caused by the power of the following sea. This had increased significantly and I was unable to control the yacht. Down came the spinnaker.

During the next twenty-four hours the northeasterlies kept increasing steadily and the sea troughs deepened significantly. I was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate on my audio compass -- the port and starboard beeps were beginning to merge into one tone. I was helming the most beautiful `S' bends and I can honestly claim that involuntary jibing has never been so tastefully or consistently done. `I can prevent this', thought the Skipper. `Can he, hell!' I thought. Two broken vangs later the yacht is all over the ocean and my concentration non-existent. My morale is at an all time low and we reduce to headsail only.

When I resumed watch my confidence steadily returned -- a couple of hours sleep had done the world of good. We were moving along very nicely, after surfing at 10 knots. Waves were beginning to break over the stem and swamp the cockpit. On several occasions the compass speaker was under water and for some time afterwards it sounded not unlike Donald Duck. As it beeped at me, `will it continue working?' I often asked myself.

Life became very pleasant indeed. Over 800 miles behind us and every twenty-four hours we were clocking up another 150 miles plus. Only another 400 miles to go. This ocean racing is quite fun, I really don't know what all the fuss is about.

"Coffee?", I was asked. "Yes please, Malcolm", I politely replied. But there was no gas getting to the cooker and replacing the gas bottle did not achieve a result. Investigation revealed that a pipe inside the locker had fractured, and cold baked beans and cold drinks were the order of the day for the rest of the trip.

We had just over 300 miles to go when Malcolm drew my attention to a potential problem. For the past few days he had been aware of a knocking coming from the rudder and suspected that the bottom bearing was broken. After that my helming was performed with a lot of loving care, I can assure you.

Suddenly the Azores were spotted -- by Malcolm I hasten to add! During that night there was torrential rain and the most spectacular lightning I have ever seen, but at that stage nothing could upset me. We were almost there and unbelievably it was nearly over. When I resumed watch early next morning I couldn't believe it. By now we had reached the end of island but there was no wind. Why? How could it disappear? For the past eight days and nights it had been so consistently co-operative.

The next seven hours or so were very frustrating indeed. We tried to pick up wind inshore and out at sea but to no avail. I was fed up with drifting past the same buildings on shore time after time. Then we got a little wind and a little more. Soon we were heading very nicely towards the bay leading up to Ponta Delgada. This was good, this was what we had come for, as well as the welcoming smell of the islands -- anchovies came to mind, I don't know why.

Malcolm put me on the helm as we approached the finishing line. The audio compass was still frantically beeping at me but, at this stage, I was ignoring it as I could `see' where I was going. It seemed to be claiming all the credit, as well it might. For eight days and nights and in large following seas it had not let me down once. Visually impaired sailors such as myself could not take part in an event such as this without an audio compass. On behalf of the hundreds of sailors who depend on the compass I would say many thanks to Autohelm.

Reflections

This was one hell of a trip -- one which I will never forget but one which I will never regret. Just over eight days and nights at sea, and approximately 1250 miles of ocean voyage, all of which was sailed without the use of an autopilot.

Malcolm and I helmed alternately. As a registered blind person I could not have taken part without an audio compass, a Lokata Watchman and, of course, the support and encouragement of my skipper. For the privilege of having been part of AZAB '95 and for my subsequent membership of the Ocean Cruising Club I will always be grateful to Malcolm Eyles, Commodore of Coutts & Co Sailing Club.