Classic_Boat_2016-10

56

TRANSAT IN A GAFFER

CLASSIC BOAT OCTOBER 2016

there during the height of carnival season, whilst I did final

stocking up and preparations for the crossing to Martinique,

2,100 miles away. The most important part of my preparation

was getting up the courage to do it, because by now the

reality of my undertaking was beginning to dawn on me.

Once away, there could be no turning back against the

trades. I was both excited and scared at the prospect.

SETTING OUT ACROSS THE ATLANTIC

Scared or not, on 2 March the moment came and we sailed

out of Mindelo harbour on a calm day under full rig plus the

jib tops’l which I had decided at the last moment to set.

Before casting off, I’d been warned about the acceleration

zone between São Vicente and the nearby island of Santo

Antão. I ignored the warning because the day seemed so

calm, just a light easterly was blowing. As we reached the

middle of the straight between the two islands the wind

increased dramatically, and with the tops’l up we were

hopelessly over canvassed. Leaving the helm to hand it made

her round up quickly towards the shore of Santo Antão, just

a little over a mile away, so I had to work quickly. By now

both jib and tops’l were luffing and their leeward sheets

became tangled together. Foolishly I tried to hand the tops’l

by grabbing the mess of sheets and was rewarded by a

flogging I will never forget. Ropes normally feel soft, but

when they are on the loose end of a thrashing sail they feel

like bars of iron. Within seconds I received five blows around

head and shoulders, one of which destroyed my sunglasses.

The sixth blow caught the knuckle of my right thumb,

rendering it useless for the rest of the voyage. The problem

was solved by backing both sails so as to stop the leeward

sheets from flogging. A few moments later the tops’l was

down and we bore away. Then, ironically the wind died and

we lay becalmed!

Towards sunset the wind returned and over the course of

the night, once clear of the islands we had 25 to 30 knots

from east north east. I laid a course due west, starboard

gybe, applied a lot of arnica to my thumb, had an early

dinner and turned in. From then until we raised Martinique 17

days later I hardly touched the sheets or the helm. The vane

held her on course, leaving me nothing much to do but

watch and enjoy. Part of my solitary enjoyment was listening

to Cesare Avora, a Cap Verde singer whose music I had

bought on CD the morning of departure. I played it all the

time, until on day 7 I found that the batteries were flat and I

could not start the engine to recharge them. The rest of the

voyage to Martinique (11 days), were without power as I

could not get enough charge from my antiquated solar

panel. Despite this the sailing was the stuff of dreams,

running before a fully developed trade wind, with sunshine

all day and starshine all night. Fortunately I was still able to

listen to music because I had an iPod and two full re charge

packs to keep it going. Often, at night after dinner I would

stand up on one of the cockpit boxes, leaning on the boom

gallows facing aft, looking at the wake racing out into the

night whilst listening loudly to Van Morrison, Bob Dylan and

others. Even if my thumb was still very sore and I had to

fiddle with oil lamps every evening in order to have some

navigation lights, it was wonderful; the sail of a lifetime.

ARRIVING IN MARTINIQUE

Eighteen days out from Mindelo the coast of Martinique rose

slowly on the western horizon. Without engine power I could

not enter a marina unaided, and knowing that the

anchorages in Martinique are all crowded with yachts I was

wary about using an unreliable hook. In an anchorage I would

have to leave the bowsprit out so as to be able to set the jib

and sail clear if the anchor dragged. The thought of trying to

get out of a crowded unfamiliar anchorage under sail alone

and at night, with the bowsprit threatening to impale all in its

path, finally forced me to accept the indignity of a tow. And

so it was that the last mile was made with the assistance of a

launch from the marina at Port du Marin.

It was strange to see people again, to hear shore noises,

and smell the earth once more. I tried to feel elated, tried to

savour this long anticipated moment. But it was not like

that at all; I just felt tired, unsteady on my feet, and hungry.

That evening I went to the nearest restaurant for the luxury

of a meal cooked by others. Then a heavy squall hit the

island, with a sudden powerful outburst of chaotic winds,

torrential rain and huge hailstones bouncing on the roads.

People were running for cover, awnings were flapping and

straining; the noise was incredible. And I was so glad not to

be out there either on a strange shore in the dark,

struggling to find an anchorage, or dragging my anchor

through a crowd of other boats. Then a feeling of sweet

relief swept over me, dispersing all my landfall blues. The

squall passed, the night was clear once more. I smiled up at

the sky, thanked my lucky stars, drank a bit too much, and

went to bed, for a long and careless sleep.

DAVID SYCADMORE

Above, left: the

battered remains

of Sally B’s

ensign; dolphins

off Cape

Finisterre; HMS

Diamond rock,

Martinque

“It was

strange

to see

people

again,

to hear

shore

noises,

and

smell the

earth”