The Duel

In late 1971 I was working at a marina in Los Angeles when a gorgeous wooden ketch of around 70 feet pulled into the slip beside me. I got talking to one of the crew and found out that they were off to Hawaii the next morning.

A few words with the skipper—Bob something-or-other—and yours truly became the fifth crew member. As it turned out—apart from me—Bob was the only one with any sailing experience.

We stopped off in San Diego, where one of the crew and I met a couple of young ladies in a bar. Around two in the morning, on our way back to the boat, we happened upon a couple of supermarket carts. Being the gentlemen we were, we helped our new friends into these vehicles in order to spare them an arduous walk.




Most of our voyage was uneventful.
 Yours truly at wheel.

Well, sometimes chivalrous intent, mixed    with an excess of ale, has a tendency to take an unexpected turn. In no time at all, the sedate transportation of the ladies evolved into a race. We were neck and neck when the flashing lights of a police car brought an end to the contest. A grinning officer actually wrote us a speeding ticket! If only there were more cops with that same sense of humour. But alas, nowadays it seems the majority of them are being recruited from Serious School.

Wind beginning to pipe up.

Most of our voyage was uneventful—a steady fifteen to twenty knot breeze on the beam scooting us along at around nine knots. But a day out of Hawaii, the wind piped up.

For some reason, the owner and I didn’t get along too well. Perhaps it was because he was half Irish, half Cherokee and more than a little bonkers…or maybe it was me.

Anyway, as the sun set and the wind increased to a gale, Bob sent everyone below for the night—except me. He then announced that we would take hourly turns at being captain. I was crew for the first hour, and his initial command was for me to change the headsail.

Well, on a vessel this size, the sails are huge and weigh half a ton. Under a sane skipper, two or three people would be required to carry out his order. But on this night I was on my own.

So I dragged this monster of a sail through the cabin (I couldn’t take it out the fore hatch because waves were breaking over the bow) and wrestled it out through the main hatch. Then I hauled it to the bow along a wave-washed deck angled at around forty-five degrees—all under the gleaming eye of captain Mad Bob.

Once on the foredeck I lowered the sail we had up, climbed out on the bowsprit, un-hanked it and wrestled it into its bag. Then there was the replacement sail to put on and hoist.

The whole operation took me the best part of my hour and I was exhausted. When I returned, soaking wet, to the cockpit Bob had a shit-eating grin on his face.

But I soon removed that grin when I got the wheel in my claws and became captain. I adopted a thoughtful expression, scowled off into the gloom and announced that the wind appeared to have eased a trifle. “I think we could change up to a bigger headsail,” I gleefully told him.

What a joy it was to see him—through sheets of lashing rain and spray—perched out at the end of the bowsprit wrestling with a flogging sail as I drove him into the waves.

This went on all night with various sails going up and coming down with each change of command. The only difference between us (I discovered later) was that Bob had a supply of ‘bennies’ he was popping to keep himself awake.

The next day we sailed into port. Not a word was mentioned about our duel.

I recently Googled ‘yacht, Nam Sang’ and it would appear that captain ‘Bob’ went under a number of names and had stolen this renowned vessel from its New Zealand owners.

I caught this wahoo using
a strip of cloth as lure
—it was delicious

Additional post 30 Oct. '12

http://www.kamadofraudforum.org/viewtopic.php?t=507

http://www.stfyc.com/files/StFrancisHistory.pdf    Nam Sang is on page 28. She had a bowsprit when I sailed on her.