10 http://www.yachtingmonthly.com NOVEMBER 2017
The Caribbean had to remain virgin territory for me as the
mother of all storms put paid to Black Pearl and my plansA
s a November gale raged overhead I
sat disconsolately below staring at a
sodden sock. I couldn’t be bothered
to pick it up; there was nowhere
to dry it out anyway. Everything was wet. As
Black Pearl, a 52ft brigantine rolled to leeward
water spread in skins over the cabin sole, as she
rolled to windward the skins ran back again,
as she pitched forward,
water spurted through
the deckhead, as her stern
dropped, water dripped
through the lazarette. The
bunks were wet, the settee
cushions were wet, all the
crew’s spare clothing in
waterproof bags was wet.
When I joined the US-registered Black Pearl,
at Swanwick marina on the River Hamble, as
one of her 10 crew, I clinked glasses and raised
a cheer for our destination: the swaying palms
of St Thomas in the Virgin Islands.
Now, four days of headwinds later, as we
approached the west side of Ushant I’d given
up thoughts of reaching the latitude where the
butter melted, I’d be happy if we could just claw
far enough south to dry it out.
Even Charlie, the mate, an ageing merchant
seaman, seeing out the fag end of his career in a
yacht, had lost heart. I watched him preparing
soup in a large pot, throwing in strips of bacon.
‘You know half of them on deck are veggies,
don’t you?’ I said.
‘That’ll dissolve,’ he replied.
You couldn’t blame him. His wife, Iris, was
the ship’s cook, but she hadn’t been seen since
we left Brixham, where we’d put into for a
generator part. One one occasion as we lurched
to port, her stateroom door burst open and I
caught a glimpse of what appeared to be an
alabaster knight’s lady on a cathedral tomb as
she lay supine from seasickness on her bunk.
Charlie had to cook as well as stand his watch.
We had cleared Ushant by a day when
suddenly there was a crash and Black Pearl
seemed to stop dead. On deck a huge sea was
running off the upper works and the wind,still a damnable southwesterly, was now
blowing Storm Force 10. The sea had punched
the bowsprit inboard 2ft, tearing it free of its
fastenings, the whisker poles hung limp and
broken, the outer jib was in ribbons and the
steering was slack and mushy.
Myself and Bobby, the American bosun, went
aloft up the foremast to bend extra gaskets
around the elasticated
existing versions from
which the squaresails were
billowing loose. Not that we
could now set any sail apart
from the main staysail:
with the bowsprit loose the
whole rig was jeopardised.
We were simply fore-reaching, to keep her head
up, but mostly driving downwind abeam.
It was now dark and only the starboard
navigation light showed us the mountainous
seas pounding Black Pearl’s weather side.
The light showed the biggest sea we’d seen
so far. It seemed to be gathering all available
water around it, as if some huge monster was
surfacing from the depths. It curled into a
massive white gloved fi st that punched Black
Pearl from south-east to east and swept her
decks completely. Bobby and I were up a mast
which appeared to be planted in the ocean.
The engine was also playing up and so the
decision was made to broadcast a Mayday.
The St Nazaire lifeboat got to us the following
morning at daybreak, too late to save any souls
as the wind had eased, but in time to give us a
welcoming tow to Le Palais in Belle Isle.
Black Pearl’s owner, Barclay H Warburton
Junior, called the voyage off until the following
spring and for me, 44 years on, the waving
palms of the Virgin Islands remain how I fi rst
came across them in that Hamble bar: left to
the imagination. WMORE
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Listen online or download via:
http://www.yachtingmonthly.com/podcastsIt was now blowing
Force 10 and I was up a
mast which appeared to
be planted in the ocean