Cruise to Alderney
Sunday 4th July
It was Sunday, the 4th of July, 1971, just before eight in the morning, when I wrote an entry in the log book to the effect that "Phillida" was making her departure from the Exe Bell. The early morning forecast had predicted an easterly wind of force 3. That was ideal for the planned crossing of the English Channel from Exmouth, in Devon, to the island of Alderney, near the French coast.
My boat was a Torbay Class 2 Racer. She was typical of a late nineteen-thirties gentlemen's day boat. She had a large sail area, a moderate beam, and an overall length of 19 feet. She had a capacious cockpit which I covered with a canvas apron when cruising. I also made a simple boom tent for shelter when at anchor.
Through the sea haze I could still see the entrance of the Exe estuary, where several fishing boats were drifting on the tide. The red sandstone cliffs contrasted with the green hills further to the east. Our course would keep us clear of the area reserved for the firing range.
Since there was only a whisper of wind, 'Phillida' barely made way; therefore I reluctantly started the Seagull outboard engine, which for a short time belched blue smoke. This trusty slave, known as my friend, 'Sherpa', when in dutiful service, always made an ear-shattering, but reassuring cacophony. He sounded like a couple of old tin cans banging together, but he never failed me.
Half-an-hour later the sun broke through the haze and a breeze materialized, so we were able to sail again. To counteract the set of the ebb I changed course to south-south-east.
Once clear of the land, and being aware of the need to conserve energy, I set about making the boat self-steer. By slightly backing the jib and slackening the mainsheet, while the tiller was lashed a smidgen to windward, a natural balance was achieved. 'Phillida' left behind her a trail of bubbles; these were off-set a few degrees from her centre line, which showed she had very little leeway. I lay down on the cockpit floor and pulled the cover over me for protection from the sun. It seemed all right not to keep a proper look out, because in that part of the Channel the likelihood of other vessels being in the area was minimal.
Shortly before eleven the wind petered out, and I could tell by the feel of the boat that she was off course and wallowing. I therefore took advantage of the calm conditions to make a mug of coffee before steering by hand. Cooking arrangements were primitive, but effective; I simply used a gimballed Primus.
Trimming the sails to every zephyr was hard work, but after twenty minutes the wind increased, and the haze returned. I felt a certain anxiety, a sense of loneliness. There was an eerie silence, except for the sound of sloshing of water. To comfort and fortify myself I opened the food box for a helping of cold chicken, lettuce, beetroot and cucumber, which I ate with chunks of buttered bread. This was swilled down with a generous helping of bottled lemonade. Then I heard the unmistakeable sound of a ship's horn. It was coming from somewhere broad on the port bow, but how far away the vessel was I could not tell. Every two minutes she made her doleful note. It took twenty minutes for the vessel to pass dead ahead, which meant she was motoring at a reduced speed and was well to the south. I figured this would be in keeping with a ship on course for the Lizard, from which point she would make her departure for an Atlantic crossing.
There was no let-up with the haze, indeed it grew thicker. I suppose I should have expected it, since I was near the centre of an area of high pressure. Cold air was falling onto warm water, bringing about a layer of surface condensation. Therefore the sky above was a perfect unblemished blue, but all around there was a veil of yellow haze.
Before long the wind faltered, so I set 'Sherpa' to work. I refilled the tank, and within minutes we were doing a good four knots. An hour-and-a-half later it was time to top up the tank, but the wind returned and visibility improved. How uplifting it was to be sailing again.
I relaxed and lay back as my body was pleasantly warmed by the sun. Astern I noticed there was a small moth struggling to catch us up. I was reluctant to reduce speed, but at the same time I wanted this speck of life to gain a foothold. The tiny creature eventually alighted on the sail and clung precariously to a seam near the peak. How relieved I was. There he spread out his wings and rested - despite the movement of the sail. Later in the afternoon, when checking to see if the moth was still there, I noticed the sky was speckled with cloud in the formation of a mackerel pattern. The moth had gone, but what was the significance of the cloud, if any?
Keeping a lookout is a fundamental requirement of the International Regulations for the Prevention of Collisions at Sea, and so I was glad to be doing my duty when we approached a strange looking object, which on closer inspection, turned out to be a floating, bathtub! Nearby there were other bits of flotsam, including a red beer can. Inevitably, where there's rubbish at sea, there's also the scavenger of the sea, the common gull.
With nothing better to do, I pondered the likelihood of the moth's survival, since the nearest land was at least twenty or thirty miles away. A margin of ten miles of uncertainty seemed quite a discrepancy, but I couldn't really be sure of "Phillida's" position. Thirty three years later, as I put together this account, things have changed enormously. I now possess a Garmin eTrex Legend GPS, an instrument smaller than many mobile phones, but capable of indicating the position of a yacht within a few metres!
Judging speed and distance was a bit hit or miss, because I did not have a trailing log or speedometer. Apart from a primitive DF set, I was reliant upon a 'guess-estimate' of the distance travelled. My compass had no deviation; therefore by applying variation and making an adjustment for leeway, plus or minus tidal drift, I could get some idea of the direction in which my boat had travelled. By plotting estimated positions on the chart every two hours, I could have a rough idea where I was. If I wanted more accuracy, I needed to make a note of the time in seconds it took the boat to pass a floating object, then apply a simple equation: 'Speed equals the length of the boat, divided by the time taken.' Knowing the speed of the boat I could ascertain the distance travelled.
Because the wind had been variable in strength it had been difficult to keep tabs on the average speed, and this was made more 'iffy' because I had also used the engine. Therefore it was not surprising I could not be certain of our position within a distance of ten miles. On reflection that seems horrendous, but by the standards of the day, it was tolerable.
Late that afternoon we passed fairly close to two vessels of unknown purpose and design; both were going astern. This was a mystery I could not fathom. An hour later, at 5.30 pm, a west bound freighter crossed our bows; she was about a quarter of a mile away. The presence of these ships led me to believe we were in the west going shipping lane; therefore I plotted a rough position of 50 degrees 8 minutes north, and 2 degrees 50 minutes west. Moments later I saw what appeared to be a ghost ship gliding into view from the golden haze; she silently made her way to the west, where she took on an ethereal presence before disappearing completely. I knew for sure she was the large and luxurious cruise ship, the 'Oriana'.
Six miles to the west of Alderney there is a very powerful lighthouse marking the dangerous Casqet rocks. This is a treacherous area because of the ferocity of the currents which can run at speeds of five knots or more. The range of the tide can be as much as nine metres! Before entering the area I needed to know my position more accurately, especially as there were shipping separation zones through which I had to pass. I hoped for good visibility so that I could identify various lights. In theory I should have been able to see the loom of the Casquet light when ten or more miles from it. Before nightfall I obtained a DF bearing of the lighthouse so that I would have a rough idea where to look. The DF gave a direction of 188 degrees true, but I was inexperienced at using the radio, and therefore I couldn't wholeheartedly rely on the position line.
While there was daylight I took the opportunity to study my Alderney chart. It was printed by the Admiralty and showed soundings in fathoms and feet. As far as I can remember, lights were marked in magenta ink. I made a mental note that the island was about three-and-a-half nautical miles long, and a mile and a quarter wide. It lay on an axis south west to north east. On the northern side lay the harbour of Braye, which was my intended destination. Land contours, prominent buildings, roads and footpaths were all clearly marked. The chart gave me a pretty good idea of what to expect. There were several off-lying rocks. All in all, navigating around Alderney in poor visibility would be no picnic.
It was quite a pleasant evening as the wind filled in from astern, but I had a sudden rush of adrenalin when I heard a thud, followed by a scraping sound as "Philliada" lurched over an underwater object. I deduced the most likely cause was a piece of timber, perhaps a plank or a wooden crate. Nothing bobbed up in the wake. To make sure the hull was intact I carried out a thorough check, but fortunately I couldn't find any damage.
At 21.08, I changed course to 130 degrees to off-set the effect of the ebbing tide, and a quarter-of-an-hour later I tried starting the Primus to boil three eggs, but it refused to light - despite pricking it several times. Instead, I used the back-up cooker which was fuelled with methylated tablets.
At nightfall I found comfort in the silver moon, while the boat was shrouded in low-lying sea fog. The sound of a ship's horn sent a chill down my spine, reminding me I was not exactly an intrepid sailor.
An hour before midnight I took a DF bearing of the Casquet rocks to the south. Because of the fog there was no visual sign of them.
Monday 5th July
Time slipped by, and before I knew it, four hours of my life was lost while playing the part of a somnambulant automatic pilot who was suddenly woken from a trance by the glare of a powerful searchlight. A large tanker slowly emerged from the swirling fog, and as she lumbered by, a powerful beam of light shone from her bow until another from her stern reassuringly took its place. How I praised the crew's vigilance. Undoubtedly they had spotted us on their radar before cautiously proceeding. With hindsight I suppose we were at the eastern end of the east-going shipping lane, which lay to the north of Alderny.
The early morning light revealed an agitated sea. As the wind increased I felt it prudent to double reef the mainsail and set the small jib. Visibility was poor. At 0800 I took a DF bearing of the Alderny aero beacon which provided a position line of 230 degrees true. I was tired and puzzled by the bearing. Had I been able to think clearly I would have change course for Bray harbour to the south west. In the event I continued on a south easterly course.
At 09.12 things looked a little more rosy as a watery sun made its appearance and I was inspired to shake out the reefs. A half-an-hour later the sun was so warm I removed my shirt and sunbathed, but the haze prevented any sighting of land. As very little was happening I took the opportunity to bail out some water that had found its way into the bilge. A jaunty French crabbing vessel briefly came into view, and as we passed each other closely, the skipper politely doffed his cap to the Englishman.
When it was time for coffee, around 11.00 am, a headland unexpectedly emerged from the haze.
No more was recorded in the logbook until Thursday, 8th June; which could only mean one thing, happenings thereafter became too hectic for keeping a written account. Besides, I was very tired and anxious.
Was the unidentified bluff of land the north eastern end of Alderney? Most definitely not! It had a lighthouse, but it did not bear a resemblance to the description given in Reeds Nautical Almanac of Quenard Point lighthouse. Neither did compass bearings confirm it. On the other hand the characteristics seemed to match those of Grosnez Point on the north western tip of Jersey - but that was impossible - in no way could my navigation have been that much out!
I desperately needed sleep, and of necessity I sailed close to the headland to find a spot where I could anchor. I used my large fisherman anchor. It was attached to a short chain on the end of a very long length of tarred hemp, but to my consternation the current was so strong that the bow was dragged dangerously low in the water. Since I could not retrieve the anchor, there was only one thing to do, that was to cut it loose. With a twang the warp parted. Fortunately there was enough wind for the boat to sail between the rocks at the foot of the cliff.
As I looked up at the lighthouse I saw several excited people who were apparently interested in my antics, but were they concerned for my welfare, or where they surprised at the foolishness of the mad English man? They must have deduced my nationality, because "Phillida" flew the the red ensign at her stern.
Half an hour elapsed while stemming the tide, then a large camouflaged motor yacht took up position to leeward. Using my schoolboy French I managed to persuade those aboard her that I did not need assistance and that all was well. When scanning the horizon to the west for more clues as to where I was, I noticed the unmistakable shape of Alderney. The island was silhouetted against the setting sun. Then, and only then, did it dawn on me that I was at Cap de la Hague! How stupefied I had been, not to have worked out where I was.
Fatigue more or less incapacitated me, but my guardian angel must have cared, because there was plenty enough wind for us to reach the entrance of Braye harbour by midnight. It was a romantic setting, as the craggy outline of the land above the harbour came into view; all was bathed in moonlight under a starry sky, which was decorated with dashing silver clouds.
I threw one of the two remaining anchors over the bow, and, after rapidly arranging the cockpit tent, I promptly fell asleep.
Bill
31.12.04
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Copyright 2001/5 Small Sailboats.