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
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.
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| 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
a) Some floozie;
or
b) An altercation
with Dominican officialdom.
Davina
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