A Rather Damp Christmas

It was dusk on Christmas Eve when we set out from La Coruña, Spain and headed north across the dreaded Bay of Biscay toward Brest, France. Bob and I were aboard my 39ft Alan Buchanan designed sloop, Mary Poppins.

After a number of years living in the Dominican Republic, I’d decided to head for the south of England. Why I chose this particular time to make the change escapes me now. What I do know is that the time of year was a factor in my ending up with Bob as crew—he’d never sailed before and consequently had no idea of how bad the North Atlantic could be when the winter storms came howling across it.

The Bay of Biscay has the reputation of being second only to Cape Horn in its ability to send ships and their crew to Davy Jones’ Locker. The reason being that during winter especially, the westerly gales build huge masses of water and send them surging right across the Atlantic. Off France, they get funneled into the shoaling waters of ‘The Bay’ where they build to terrifying and destructive heights.

The Dreaded Bay

Bob and I had been sheltering in La Coruña for over a week, waiting for a break in the weather. Finally, a local forecast gave us the all clear—winds from the south, fifteen to twenty knots for the next forty-eight hours. Perfect.

Off we went.

Well, the forecast proved to be spot-on—for about the first two hours. Then the wind piped up to a full gale. We’d been running under headsail only so it was no trouble to furl it in to a manageable size. As the wind continued to strengthen, I cranked it in yet more until all we had was a small corner of the sail showing. But this was enough to scoot us along at around six knots.

With the heavy following sea, the Aries self-steering gear was having a hard time keeping us on a straight course, so I disconnected it. A little later, I gave Bob the tiller while I went below to examine the chart.

We stood no chance of returning to La Coruña against the gale but I figured we might be able to head off on a close reach to one of the ports in the south-east corner of the Bay. But then who knows how long we’d be stuck there. In the end I decided we might as well keep going….perhaps the storm would blow itself out.

Normally I don’t favour safety harnesses—having once almost drowned by wearing one of the wretched things—but on this night I made sure that whoever was topside was wearing one.

The hatch boards were in place so the waves that came crashing over the stern stayed for the most part in the cockpit. From below I could feel when the big ones hit—a shuddering of the vessel followed by a muffled string of expletives as a fresh load of frigid water found the gaps in Bob’s foul-weather gear.

I’d been below for perhaps ten minutes when from the bow came a brief whirring sound followed by a loud WHUMP. Then Mary lurched onto her beam ends. I opened the hatch and poked my head out. A glance aft showed Bob up to his waist in water wrestling with the tiller. Up forward, we now had a full number-one headsail thrashing in the howling wind. The reefing line had broken and the whole thing was out there threatening to pull down the mast.

I jumped into the cockpit, released the sheet and made my way forward. By this time the sail had begun to thrash itself to pieces, shaking poor Mary like a rat in the jaws of a dog.

At times the boat found herself on an even keel as she surfed down a wave. On one of these occasions, with halyard in hand, I made a dash across the foredeck toward the bow. But my feet had no sooner touched the deck than they went shooting into the air and I found myself on my back. The bottom part of the roller-furling gear had literally exploded and there were about ten thousand ball-bearings turning the foredeck into a skating rink.

After a half-hour struggle, I’d managed to haul and cut the sail away from the forestay and consigned it to the sea. By the time I’d cleaned up the mess of lines it was time for Bob to go below. This was no great privilege as gallons of water from breaking waves had found their way past the hatch and hatch-boards to the bunks. Once again, I heard Bob’s muffled shriek of displeasure as he settled into the sodden bedding.

We had not a shred of sail up but according to the log we were doing close to four knots!

The night was pitch black. The only time you could see the foaming waves charging up behind was when the feeble glow of the stern light caught them. By this time it was too late to duck if they were planning on breaking into the cockpit—which a good many of them did.

Despite the south wind, it was bitterly cold on deck—too cold to stand longer than a one-hour watch. And so we went, running blindly through the night, alternating between the flooded cockpit and a sodden bunk.

It was closing in on two in the morning and I was nearing the end of my stint on deck. If anything, the wind was increasing rather than easing off. And as we got further out into the Bay, the seas grew bigger. I sat in the cockpit with my back to the west so I could divide my time between the compass and the waves rushing up astern.

 I didn’t see the sneaky bastard coming. It hit me from behind—from the west. I have no idea as to the size of it but it must have been huge. All I know is that it drove me down hard into the bottom of the cockpit. Then I was swimming. The boat had gone from under me.

I remember that moment clearly. My first thought; “The boat’s gone.” Second thought: “I’m tethered to it by my safety harness.” I fumbled desperately for the knife at my waist.

Just as I got it out, good old Mary popped up under me. I hate to admit it but I hadn’t given a thought to Bob, snoring away below—not that I could have done anything for him if the vessel had continued her plunge.

That monster wave flattened the seas completely when it came charging through. For a couple of minutes after it had passed, the surface was all foamy like shaving cream. Difficult to imagine the volume of water that came crashing down on us, but it must have been substantial in order to drive a forty-foot boat that far under the water—at least six feet because when I was swimming I felt nothing beneath me.

Bob managed to sleep through the whole episode. He had no idea he’d been submerged until I told him when he came on deck.

It took us another seventy odd hours to make Brest. And that wretched wind didn’t ease up for a moment.

Got to give credit to Bob here—a first time sailor. He never got seasick during the entire voyage. And surprisingly, neither of us caught even a sniffle despite being soaking wet for three days. It’s as if the body knows it won’t be in its best interest to get sick at times like this.

Peter states that he can’t recall why he chose the middle of winter to head over to England. I’d lay odds that it had to do with either:

  a) Some floozie;

            or

  b) An altercation with Dominican officialdom.

                                                                      Davina

Smokey Joe and the Smugglers

I see the Spaniards are getting in a snit over Gibraltar once again.

The 1713 Treaty of Utrecht ceded control of the peninsular to Britain and the Spanish have been bitching over what their ancestors signed ever since. Although Gib. still retains ties with Britain, it is basically run by the Gibraltarians and they are perfectly happy with the way things stand.

Kalinka--once again

When I was living there aboard the Kalinka in the late ‘70’s, Spain had closed the border and lofted helium balloons on steel cables to prevent planes arriving at Gibraltar from impinging upon their airspace. I recall some interesting landings when commercial aircraft were forced to swoop down to the runway like World War II dive-bombers.

The land border was closed, so to get from Gibraltar to Spain you had to go by ferry. But you couldn’t go direct. You had first to cross the Straights to Tangier, Morocco and then re-cross to Algeciras.

An acquaintance of mine devised a rather unique way of making the voyage to visit a girlfriend across the border though: He’d weigh down a wooden fruit crate with a couple of stones and swim out from the beach where he’d dump the stones, position his head under the crate and allow the tide to carry him to Spain. On an outgoing tide he’d repeat the process.

Predictably, the ruse was doomed to eventual failure. After three of these flotsam-like voyages, followed by three nights of passion, my friend was nabbed and spent six months in jail.

Gibraltar was chock full of miscreants plotting various schemes and scams. Almost wherever you looked, something was going on that shouldn’t have been.

In the boatyards, dubious-looking characters could be seen raising waterlines on pleasure craft in order to have them appear a little less obvious when burdened to the gunwales with whatever illicit cargo they were destined to carry.

A local character who went by the name of Maxie always wore a wide-brimmed Stetson and cowboy boots. One night, toddling home from the pub at around two in the morning, I spied the silhouette of Maxie’s Stetson under a pier. What he was doing up to his waist in water at two in the morning is anyone’s guess. Certainly not anything he should have been doing.

Charlie, a mechanic who occasionally did some work on Kalinka regaled me with tales of the old cigarette smuggling days. Gibraltar was a free port. Cigarettes and various other goods were stockpiled there for legal transhipment to other ports.

The accounting involved with these stockpiles appeared to be rather sketchy however, as from what Charlie told me, a good portion of the smokes left the port illegally in vessels meticulously tuned for high speed. Although not mentioned, I gained the impression that Charlie performed a good deal of the tuning.

MTB Boat

The vessel of choice was the World War II, seventy-three foot MTB which was powered by three Rolls Royce Merlin aircraft engines. According to Charlie, these supercharged engines could push the boats along at around seventy knots.

Most had been fitted with armour-plating on the lower part of the wheelhouse, which contained a second small wheel and compass mounted on the floor, offering the helmsman some protection from the Spanish patrol boats.

At one stage there were twelve of these vessels operating out of Gibraltar. The Spanish opposition fielded two patrol boats—one being an ancient corvette known as Smokey Joe. Depending on who you listened to Smokey was driven by a wood, or coal burning engine. She was still around when I was there so I can attest to the fact that whichever fuel she consumed, her moniker was well deserved.

It was apparently quite the event when the boats made their run. Thirty-six aircraft engines would be throbbing away throatily as the skippers waited for the right moment. When Smokey Joe and its companion were far enough apart to give the smugglers an opening to dart through, a lookout stationed on Europa Point would radio the go-ahead.

Upon receiving the signal, engines were given full throttle. Their bows would lift from the water and the whole rock shook as if from an earthquake. As they darted from the harbour, the patrol boats would attempt to intercept—but they were much slower. Smokey would blacken the sky with her ancient breath while, above the roar of the engines, the faint chatter of Spanish deck guns could be heard.

Arrrrh! Those were the days.

Hmmm. Always struck me as strange how Peter invariably found himself in ports where illegal activities appeared to be the order of the day…!  Davina