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64 http://www.yachtingmonthly.com MARCH 2016

A BOOK AT BUNK TIME

The Long Way,

by Bernard

Moitessier, was

fi rst published in

English by Adlard

Coles in 1973. (In

French: Editions

Arthaud, 1971).

Now out of print, it

is available second

hand online.

Reckless exhilaration

in a moonlit storm

Singlehander Bernard Moitessier feels an irresistible urge to drive his beloved Joshua too hard

wrong way in the clear night

and my beautiful bird of the

capes would go on her way

with the ghosts in the foam,

guided by a gull or porpoise.

I am not sure which I would

prefer, a seagull or a porpoise.

Joshua drives toward

the Horn under the light of

the stars and the somewhat

distant tenderness of the

moon. Pearls run off

the staysail; you want

to hold them in your

hand, they are real

precious stones that

live only in the eyes. The wake

spins out very far behind up

the slopes of the seas like a

tongue of fi re and the close-

reefed sails stand out against

the clear sky, with the moon

making the sea glisten. White

refl ection of the southern ice.

The entire sea is white and

the sky as well. I no longer

quite know how far I have got,

except that we long ago left the

borders of too much behind.

But never have I felt my boat

like that; never has she given

me so much.

I have not had my foul

weather gear off since

yesterday morning, my

sweater is wet at the collar

P

ast midnight. The

wind is not easing.

The seas are high,

very high. The

moon probably

adds to the impression

of height, by leaving the

advancing wave faces in

shadow, darker than all

the white around. I ought

to drop the main entirely,

and perhaps the

staysail. With

only the storm jib

and close-reefed

mizzen Joshua

would still do very well, and

stay this side of going too

fast. But we are surfi ng; it is

breathtaking at times, the

log has already registered

48 miles in six hours.

The hull speed has been

exceeded. And I don’t know,

shortening sail right now,

no. Some sort of rhythm

would be lost. The Horn

is too close for shortening

sail as long as things are all

right, even if they are not

quite what they should be.

During the last third of

the advancing slope of each

sea, the wind increases to

Force 9 for a few seconds.

Then everything turns white,

and sleeves, my trousers

soaked inside, and two cans

of sardines were all I ate for

dinner. Yet I feel no fatigue,

no weariness, the way after

a long, strenuous effort of

swimming the mind begins

to fl oat above the body. The

whole pulpit vanishes in the

spray of a fantastic surfi ng

run, and the moon managed

a ghostly rainbow to the

left of the stern. Joshua

bounced like a sailing skiff

and you would have thought

the hull hit something hard,

from the sound it made.

The air is icy cold. I listen.

I feel with all my might that

I must shorten the sail area,

slow down, stop surfi ng.

And at the same time I feel

the thing I want to hear

further, still further, the

great luminous wave where

one could swim forever.

I am too high this time,

Joshua is too high. Come

back to the foot of the

mast, stop playing with the

ghosts in the foam, and the

gulls and dolphins, come

back quickly and drop the

mainsail fast and hold

tight to your boat and to

your sanity. W

the boat luffs about 10° in the

gust, and I grip the mainsail

halyard tighter. The last third

of the advancing face always

provokes that little gust which

draws forward 10° or so, fi lls

the sails to the limit, and starts

us surfi ng. I feel a dangerous

urge to go out on the bowsprit

pulpit. I don’t dare go beyond

the staysail: it marks the

farthest limit of good sense.

The swirls of foam raised

by the bow fl y in the lee of

the hull for a few seconds, a

light mist eddying behind the

bellied staysail. The swirl goes

on ahead and the boat tries to

catch up. A dangerous game,

tremendously elating in this

somewhat unreal world.

A sea approaches, fairly

high, all light at the summit,

black below and ... vroouuum,

the keel hardly wavers. A great

plume shoots up on either side

of the bow, climbs high, fi lled

with swirls which the wind

throws down into the staysail,

and some into the storm jib.

One surfi ng run taken the

‘The wake spins out very far

behind like a tongue of fi re’

Born in Indo-China, now Vietnam,

Moitessier (1925-1994) came into the

limelight in 1966 when he and his wife

Francoise arrived in France after a

126-day passage from Tahiti via Cape

Horn in his 39ft steel ketch, Joshua.

Recorded in his book The Logical

Route, it was then the longest non-

stop passage to be made by a yacht.

Bernard Moitessier

Moitessier entered the Sunday

Times Golden Globe non-stop,

singlehanded race around the world,

won by Robin Knox-Johnston and

abandoned by Moitessier at the start

of the homeward Atlantic leg. On

arrival in Tahiti, he had sailed 37,455

miles, one and a half times around the

world. The Long Way was primarily an

account of what became a mystical,

spiritual voyage for Moitessier.

There’s always a good read hidden on a sailor’s shelves. Tell us your favourite. EMAIL [email protected]

PHOTO: ALAMY