Table of Contents
FOREWORD
Although, in theory, a magazine editor has a free hand over the content of their magazine, in practice major changes to the editorial mix are very difficult, though not impossible, to implement. In practice the only time the editor is free to perform major surgery is when they first take over. Such was my situation when I took over a faltering Yachting World in late 1992 and in I waded with a sharp axe. In fact so sharp was that axe that by the time I planned out my first issue as Editor there were only two out of several regular features left in the mix. One of those was Robin Knox-Johnston’s regular column which continues today some 18 years later. In this Robin brings an uncommon dash of seamanship and common sense that keeps Yachting World bolted firmly to the floor as a foil to the hi-tech world of racing, the America’s Cup and the latest technical wizardry.
Don’t get me wrong. Robin, or Sir Robin as he is now, is far from being a dyed-in-the-wool traditionalist. His knowledge and writing spans everything from current ideas to the traditional as is well illustrated by the fact that he still sails his decidedly low-tech gaff ketch Suhaili despite racing the ultra high-tech Open 60 Grey Power in the last Velux 5 Oceans round the world solo race. What his column recognises and promotes is that there are many aspects of sailing and seagoing that are every bit as relevant today as they would have been a century ago. The way we go to sea might change but the sea, and wind, remain the same.
What makes Robin so different from many other yachtsmen who have achieved great things is that having, in 1969, become the first person to sail solo, non-stop round the world, he continued to be very active in the sport with other circumnavigations and notable passages to his credit all without self-aggrandisement. Not only that, he remains even today, Britain’s best-known sailor and promoter of sailing in its broadest sense. Which is why, in 1992, that sharp axe passed over his column. And let’s hope he stays on as a Yachting World columnist for many years to come.
Andrew Bray
June 2010
PREFACE
The world of yachting has changed massively since I set sail on Suhaili, my 32ft ketch, to sail around the world. That was in 1968 and the voyage took 312 days at an average speed of just over four knots. As I write, the current solo record stands at just 57 days. I have been lucky enough to be involved with this transformation from tortoise to hare, competing on giant multihulls, round the buoys in the Admiral’s Cup and on Open 60 monohulls – though Suhaili has stayed with me throughout.
Technology has transformed sailing. Composite materials, weather routing, self-steering systems and satellites – which have given us instant communications, weather information and global positioning – have allowed yachtsmen to sail faster and faster and the records will continue to fall. There is, however, more to sailing than battling the oceans and the record books. The thrill of exploration, whether of Greenland’s frozen shores or of a quiet local creek, is something that every sailor feels, and it continues to draw me to the sea and provide a wide range of subjects for my Yachting World column.
Over the past 18 years writing for Yachting World each month has been a huge pleasure, and one I still enjoy, although sometimes the deadlines have crept up on me! I have been given a free rein, allowing me to change my focus from the latest race or rescue to more general reflections on sailing and seamanship. This selection reflects that diversity. I hope there is something here for everyone to enjoy.
Robin Knox-Johnston
June 2010
PART ONE
Going Places
THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
Every sailor thinks his own part of the world has the nastiest stretch of water. Robin thinks the Thames Estuary takes a lot of beating . . .
Have you noticed that wherever you sail in the world, with very few exceptions, the local yachtsmen will always tell you that they have the most dangerous sailing conditions anywhere on Earth?
My first introduction to this peculiarity came when sailing back from India a few decades ago. Before we left Bombay, we were warned about the dangers of the Indian Ocean. We miraculously survived the crossing to Muscat, to be told there that the coastline down to Aden was far more difficult. In Mombasa, the treacherous crossing of all these dangers was as nothing compared with the East African coast, and so on.
Wherever we arrived, people dismissed what we had been through, except, of course, the last day or two as we approached their area – where we had obviously been lucky.
We actually did believe them in East London when they told us about the Cape of Good Hope, but the Capetonians were much more in awe of the Skeleton Coast.
The people of Brest will tell you about the Chenal du Four, Australians about the Tasman, Hong Kong sailors about the China Sea.
Personally, I have always felt that the Thames Estuary takes some beating. An easterly gale on an ebb tide from Sea Reach onwards creates conditions which no one in their right mind would wish to experience in a small yacht.
However, I assumed that this was just my own prejudice until French sailor, Titouan Lamazou, told me that he was concerned at the possibility of bringing his 140ft sloop, drawing 6.5m, to London in 1993. He, like many other Frenchmen, found the estuary alarming, not because of the wind and waves, but on account of the banks and tides.
I am sympathetic. The Thames is not easy and the unwary can swiftly find themselves aground some distance from their DR position – especially now the number of navigation marks has been reduced. Even in moderate visibility I consider the Thames to be the complete justification for investing in GPS.
TOGETHER ACROSS THE POND
Crossing the Atlantic is still a major achievement, no matter how many others have already done it. The Atlantic Rally for Cruisers is a good way for amateur sailors to cross in company.
If John of Gaunt’s grandsons had been interchanged so that King Henry V of England had been Prince Henry the Navigator of Portugal and vice versa, then it is just possible that England might have started exploring by sea earlier: any one of the Canary Islands, Madeira or the Azores might have been English, not Spanish or Portuguese.
Of course, we would not have had Agincourt, but as compensation there would have been a nice warm Atlantic island in the Northern Hemisphere, selling beer instead of wine. Whether this is a great loss is a moot point; a major attraction of the islands, in addition to the mild maritime climates, of course, is their Iberian charm.
Of the three, the Canary Islands might be said to have staked an early claim as the jumping off point for an Atlantic crossing, since Columbus sailed from Gomera, one of the group.
There was practical logic in this. The Azores are on the edge of the westerlies, usually in their grip during winter when they can reach storm force (I experienced 98 knots in December 1989 while moored in Praia da Vitoria), so a voyage west was likely to be against the wind in the winter and beset by calms in the summer.
In the days before proper salting of meat and no means of keeping water sweet, voyages were severely restricted to the length of time the available stores lasted.
Madeira is in the middle of the Horse Latitudes, between the westerlies and north-east trades, so lack of wind is more likely to be a problem for an Atlantic crossing from there. The Canary Islands are at the northern edge of the trade winds where a westerly passage can find variables in winter, but usually steady winds in summer.
This made the Canaries the perfect place of departure for the square-rigged vessels that dominated oceanic transport until just over 100 years ago. Latitude, and these following winds, provide another benefit from this route, sometimes called the southern route, which is an easy, warm voyage across to the West Indies – provided the hurricane season is avoided, of course.
Those factors are just as applicable today and make the Canary Islands an ideal starting point for the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers, now known as the ARC.
Ocean cruising can trace its roots back more than 140 years, but even as recently as 1960 a transatlantic voyage was rare and seen as something special. Since then, yachting has had a huge increase in popularity. Inevitably, as people have become more experienced and adventurous and have had more leisure time, they have wanted to explore further.
There are no figures for the number of yachts crossing the Atlantic, but it must be into the thousands each year. Not all skippers are highly experienced – indeed, some are making the voyage just in order to gain experience and this is where the ARC concept is so beneficial.
The sea is never going to be a safe place, but a number of yachts sailing together does provide some security. This is the ultimate secret of the event, because it helps allay the fears of most amateur crews.
Radio allows the boats instant contact, so although they might not sight another entrant after the start, there is no need to feel alone. Each boat knows that another must be only a few hours away, to offer assistance in an emergency. There are advantages, too, in such groups sailing, as Notices to Mariners can be issued advising commercial vessels to be more watchful.
The ARC is the antithesis of such events as the America’s Cup and the Whitbread Round the World Race since it is an event for the amateur. Although there is a mild competitive element, the prime reason for entering is, I suspect, the company. The number of entries indicates the popularity of the concept.
In 1986, when the first ARC was organised, a total of 204 yachts took part, still a record for a transoceanic race and a clear indication that it fulfilled a need. The lowest entry was 97 in 1993, but by 2009 they had more than 200.
SCOTLAND THE MAGNIFICENT
A safe anchorage surrounded by empty mountains is Robin’s idea of satisfying cruising. He found it in the Arctic, but you don’t have to go so far to find clear night skies, sparsely populated anchorages and the grandeur of a mountain backdrop.
Next to racing, I think the most satisfying aspect of sailing must come from approaching a new coastline. There are the heightened senses as you navigate into a previously unknown area and the anticipation of a fresh port or anchorage to explore.
If the area is uninhabited, so much the better, as it then provides those increasingly rare commodities – privacy and freedom from social constraints.
Moored in a safe anchorage, surrounded by clean, untouched and empty mountains or hills brings a contentment that is hard to equal. There are not many places left in Europe where this is possible, which is why the Arctic is so attractive.
A recent excuse to go to the north-west of Scotland showed me that it is not necessary to travel so far to find the same grandeur! True, there are more boats about and the chances of being sole occupant of a loch are less, but the coast has been heavily indented over the centuries and there is a wide choice of lochs.
Usually there is no need to anchor within miles of another yacht. The mountains are higher in Greenland, of course, and glaciers are not to be found in Scotland, but the land has that greater ruggedness that comes from less weathering.
The head of a loch is likely to be inhabited by sheep on bright green grass rather than the barren gravel and occasional scrub at the head of a fjord, but this is only due to a few degrees’ difference in temperature and the effect of time.
From the sailor’s point of view, when searching for a good anchorage, the water close to the head of a loch is likely to shoal more gradually, not abruptly as is common further north. This has the drawback that the anchor will probably have to be laid further out, but there is less risk of dragging into deeper water or swinging into the steep edge of recently deposited silt, so often the case in Arctic fjords.
Anyone listening to the weather forecasts could be excused from gaining the impression that Scotland was the subject of continual high winds and constant heavy rainfall. Both occur, but generally less in summer when the Atlantic depressions track further north.
There is a benefit in being closer to the depression’s paths, though, as the weather changes more quickly so that if it is unpleasant today, one can be confident that it will be better tomorrow. In most cases, if not tucked into one of the small coves that are to be found from careful examination of the charts, the worst of the bad weather can be avoided by shifting a few miles to a new lee as the wind changes.
It is said that in the British Isles we have weather, not a climate, but this is what gives us the wonderful variety and changes in colour and this is a particularly attractive feature of Scotland’s west coast.
May is often a very good month in Scotland as the weather has improved and the midges have not yet expanded their numbers to the point that they make Dracula seem like an amateur at drawing blood.
Head nets and shirts that cover all exposed flesh are advisable, but these won’t keep out all of them and an insect-repelling cream is an essential part of the yacht’s stores. Smoke will drive some away, coils are effective. Closing all the hatches works to a point, but the sight of midges collected round the hatch, yearning for access to your skin, can be unnerving.
The best measure is to anchor at least 200 metres from the nearest land if this is possible. Even there the odd marathon midge will reach you.
If this all sounds as if paradise has nettles – well, that’s no bad thing. The west coast of Scotland is one of the cruising yachtsman’s best-kept secrets and we don’t want it becoming overcrowded!
ANY PLANS FOR THE SUMMER?
Planning the summer cruise can be a question of compromise, especially if your other half is not keen on long passages. In June 2005 Robin was looking forward to his own summer venture – to the east coast of Greenland.
Have you planned your summer cruise? Assuming you are not spending a season racing round the cans, the annual question of where to cruise presents yachtsmen with a wide range of choices. The decision usually comes down to available time. How long can the crew afford to be away? How far can their boat reasonably expect to go and return and leave enough time to spend at the chosen destination?
It seems to me we have had more days with easterly winds in recent years, which makes going westwards easier. But, of course, you still have to return, and in any case you cannot order ideal weather in advance, so there has to be time built into a schedule for unfavourable conditions or beating, an issue which becomes more of a priority as Monday in the office looms ever closer.
A long beat might also be a disincentive to less enthusiastic female members of the family. My observation has indicated most men sail despite their wives (not to spite them, note!) and what intelligent woman would give up a stable, dry, well-ordered home where everything stays where you put it and she can get a full night’s uninterrupted sleep for a heaving, rolling, pitching, damp one, with limited storage space and which demands anti-social hours of service? (That 35% of Clipper crews are female goes some way to disprove this point.)
My wife always suffered from seasickness for the first couple of days of sailing, although she crossed the Atlantic with me twice and did thousands of miles of quietish cruising. Nor did she find her sea legs as we got older – indeed, she was taking longer to get over seasickness – so our plans for distant cruising during retirement were changed to my doing ocean crossings alone or with non-seasick friends and she would fly over to join us for the coastal cruising.
For an average cruiser based on the UK south coast, a cruise to the west coast of Ireland or Scotland may be a bit far unless the boat can be pre-positioned closer to the destination.
Size makes a difference, of course. Larger boats travel faster and their size means waves are relatively smaller, plus they provide more space below, so living during longer cruises is more organised. But while they expand the potential range, larger boats cost more to buy, berth and maintain. Draught will be a consideration, too.
My plans for this summer involve a certain amount of pre-positioning a large yacht and one of the most fascinating places I know as the final destination – the east coast of Greenland. The boat will sail to Reykjavik, where I join it. We then plan to go down to Cape Farvel and get behind the ice that screens the east coast until July. It disperses from the south coast so the south-west and west coasts are usually clear, which explains why the Viking settlements were in this area. As and when the ice clears on the east coast we plan to move up the coast towards Scoresby Sund.
On the way I am going to drop off at Kangerlussuaq because Chris Bonington and I have some unfinished business with the Cathedral Mountain. We thought we had reached the summit 14 years ago, only to discover there was a peak slightly higher nearby, but separated by a deep ravine. Oncoming snow forced us back down and we ran out of time for another attempt.
The whole plan is ice-dependent, of course. No season is exactly the same as the previous one and the ice that streams down the coast, varying in extent from 2 to 20 miles, may or may not be there – we have no idea how global warming is affecting it, but seven years ago the ice was 20 miles deep off Angmassalik, which we reached with some difficulty.
It is possible to force a yacht through and hope that the fjords inside are less congested, provided there is no risk of strong winds that can move the ice before them at quite astonishing speeds. The floes will move if you push gently against them, but if they start to get compressed by the wind then a yacht should be well clear.
These fjords are usually relatively ice-free if no glaciers descend into them, but this becomes less likely as you move further north.
MEAT SOUP IN ICELAND
Thwarted by thick ice off Greenland in 2005, Robin and climber Chris Bonington curtailed a planned cruise and returned to Iceland to luxuriate in saunas, strap on the crampons and help out with a song during Meat Soup Night.
The ice off East Greenland in August this year extended to 100 miles from the coast, blocking access to Angmassalik and Kangerlussuaq, the intended destination for Chris Bonington and me aboard Antiope. So, we headed to Iceland instead. The north-west corner looked promising, with a group of fjords rotating out of the main entrant named Isafjardardjup and an ice cap not far from the fjords to provide a climbing interest.
We re-entered Iceland at Isafjordur, a small, very protected port on the south side of the group, and berthed between trawlers. Fishing is the town’s lifeblood, but with cod catches being limited to 200,000 tons a year to keep stocks stable, a dramatic fall from 30 years ago when the annual catch could be maintained at 500,000 tons, the large stern trawlers spend a lot of their time in port. Cruise liners visit in summer, but the larger ones have to anchor outside the port.
Like all Icelandic towns, it is scrupulously clean, but there is not much to see apart from the fish wharves and an excellent museum. For us, its public baths were attraction enough; the sensation of cleanliness from a shower and sauna was as good as any cultural attraction.
Local mountaineers and sailors quickly came down to see what we planned (and look over the boat) and mentioned that if we wanted to cross a northern fjord called Hesteyrarjordur, we could anchor and join a large party gathered for something unpronounceable that roughly translated into Meat Soup Night.
How could we refuse that? So, over we went, motoring alongside a large humpback whale in the main fjord on the way. We anchored a cable offshore in 6m of water and dinghied ashore to join more than 100 people gathered in the largest of a small group of summer houses.
The main purpose of the meeting was to enjoy a communal meal of what can best be described as Irish stew, adding credence to the claim that the Irish arrived in Iceland long before the Vikings. This was followed by a singsong around a raging fire on the beach. For the British contribution, we provided Molly Malone and Drunken Sailor, whose choruses proved popular.
We returned on board in relays throughout the night and the next morning cruised round to a neighbouring fjord, Hrafnsfjordur, where we anchored in 6m near the inner end. Like so many fjords, there was a shoaling patch at the entrance and this one shallowed to 7m where a glacier had deposited the crushed rock and soil it had brought to its outlet. But the fjord deepened to more than 20m once this was passed, then slowly shoaled towards its upper end.
These Icelandic fjords were seldom more than 60m deep in the centre and shoaled at the sides, whereas in Greenland their depth was often around 600m and steep at the sides. Anchoring in Iceland is much easier as a result and the holding is usually good with a CQR.
We were now close to the north-west Iceland ice cap and decided to get to its summit. The evening was spent preparing climbing equipment and at 0400 we landed and climbed up through grass that slowly turned to rough rock, steeper and riddled with streams as the ice cap neared.
The rock supports an amazing variety of tiny flowers and some equally small butterflies, but fortunately none of the midges that would be found in Scotland or southern Greenland.
Once on the ice we donned crampons and roped up, then made our way past the inevitable crevasses to where the ice levelled out until, in thick mist and only thanks to GPS, we found ourselves at 2,905ft. Sadly, we had reached the summit, so we failed to achieve a Munro by 95ft!
The effort of tramping 23 miles in 14 hours sated the hunger for further mountains and with low pressure systems beginning to creep eastwards around Cape Farvel, we decided to head for home. Northern Iceland is lovely in summer, but once winter gales begin to arrive it is not an enjoyable place for yachting.
Frustratingly, September was reported to be the most ice-free month in Greenland this year. Next time, perhaps.
THE BANE OF BISCAY
Its reputation precedes it – and is not always deserved – but there are many reasons why the Bay of Biscay is such a tricky obstacle for those sailing away from British shores.
The Bay of Biscay is a permanent obstacle we cannot avoid for sailing vessels heading west or south away from the British Isles. Its reputation gives the impression that the weather is more severe there than, say, the English Channel, but in practice this is not the case.
A storm that comes into the Bay, as we had at the beginning of the Velux 5 Oceans race in October 2006, will come north to the United Kingdom. The waves built up by the wind are the result of the depressions that run over the British Isles and these affect the Bay in the same way, although often the wind decreases the further south you go.
The long Atlantic swell shortens in the Channel and the eastern part of the Bay as the floor of the Atlantic rises and the waves become steeper when you reach soundings, historically at a depth of 200 fathoms. You can often feel and see the change as you pass over this contour.
Biscay is as open to the prevailing south-westerly gales as the Channel, so why has it got such a reputation?
The main reason is its size. From Ushant to Cape Vilano, which marks the southern end of the Bay rather than Cape Finisterre, is 360 miles in a south-westerly to southerly direction. In the days of sailing ships, and for many yachts, it can be a three to six-day passage and the chances that a gale might come through in that period are quite high – and much more so in the winter.
If you allow a couple of days to get to the beginning at Ushant, then the chances of meeting a gale are even higher. The problem is that the gale is almost certainly going to be a south-westerly, probably the direction you are trying to go, forcing a long and uncomfortable beat and, perhaps, the need to heave to before a welcome front comes through and, after a sharp increase in wind strength accompanied by rain, veers the wind round to the west or north-west and it becomes possible to free off for Finisterre.
You can get lucky and get a north-west round to easterly wind. Traditionally, this is what you wait for if you are setting off to break round the world records so you get clear of the Bay as speedily as possible. In the case of ENZA New Zealand in 1994, waiting for the right conditions enabled us to round Finisterre in just 19 hours. There the wind became the traditional Nortada off the Portuguese coast, which allowed a three-day run to the Canary Islands. Against this, it took seven days in Suhaili in 1968 and five days in 2001, including a period hove-to.
My first experience of the Bay was as a first tripper on a cargo ship. The conditions were not too bad, probably about Force 6, and this is the first and last time I have ever been seasick. Nine months later, coming back across the Bay in a storm, I was forward lookout, stuck right forward behind the bulwark at the prow. The ship was pitching heavily, sending fountains of water through the hawspipes behind me. It was awesome and wonderful.
When my relief was due, he failed to arrive and, after 30 minutes, I rang five bells to tell the bridge I had not been relieved. An Aldis light flashed from the bridge signalling me to report back there. I ran the gauntlet of the waves on the foredeck and climbed up the bridge to find it full of activity. An SOS had been received from the German sail-training ship Pamir. We were not asked to go to her assistance, being too far away. She sank with the loss of all but eight of her crew.
The old rule for square riggers was that when the wind was south-westerly, you headed west and if the wind direction did not change, you kept a westerly course until you could go on to the starboard tack and on that tack sail west of Finisterre. Of course, square riggers could only sail to within six points of the wind, nearly 70◦, whereas a modern yacht can do better.
Sometimes it does not do very much better though, especially if the wind is strong, as then leeway will increase. This was a sensible practice as, if you tack into the Bay of Biscay and something goes wrong, there are not many easy places to seek shelter and from Ushant to Biarritz is a 360-mile-long lee shore.
IT’S NOT CRICKET!
The wicket was a little suspect, and the scoring certainly was, but the annual Brambles Bank cricket match in the middle of the Solent is all part of Britain’s yachting tradition, says Robin.
